


potentially lovely, perpetually human

by myrmidryad



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Empath, M/M, Non-binary character, Psychic Abilities, Touch-Starved, brief homophobic slurs, empath!Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:29:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither Rosa nor his mother had ever come up with a name for it. Enjolras had ended up tentatively calling it <i>psychically enhanced empathy</i> after devouring every sci-fi and fantasy book with psychic characters he could find (most of them confirming their insistence that he keep his secret hidden on pain of experimentation and a ruined life). He’d read everything out there, including a truly depressing number of crackpot books and magazine articles that recommended everything from communicating with angels to playing with crystals, all to try and enhance natural abilities and open the inner eye. None of those books or articles ever had any advice about making it stop.</p><p> </p><p>Enjolras is used to keeping himself physically distanced from everyone around him. But when he accidentally touches Grantaire, he finds himself wanting to break the rules he's always lived by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Open](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oK9jb4fVBug) by Regina Spektor (the whole song is very much an Enjolras song for this fic).

“Do you ever have anything cheerful to say?” Courfeyrac asked despairingly. Enjolras raised an eyebrow and looked at Grantaire. The two of them had been arguing for the past few minutes, Courfeyrac getting more and more wound up as Grantaire became more and more disparaging.

“Of course I do,” Grantaire smirked, and held up their wallet. “I have enough money tonight for at least three more drinks. If that’s not cheer, I don’t know what is.”

“You can’t just ignore everything that’s wrong with the world by drinking!”

“I know, and isn’t that a shame?” Grantaire sighed, holding the neck of their beer bottle lightly between their fingers. “I wish I could.”

Courfeyrac made an indignant sound. Enjolras knew the feeling, though he hadn’t ever argued with Grantaire himself – they weren’t close friends, though Grantaire attended almost every meeting. The one who kept coming back despite their world-weary scepticism, and though they usually seemed content to sit and listen with a faint smile on their face, occasionally someone would engage them and they would proceed to outline their dismally pessimistic vision of their efforts. It was frustrating to say the least.

“You’re impossible!”

“So I’ve been told.” Grantaire snorted and tipped the bottle back, finishing the contents in a quick gulp. “Another drink?”

“You disgust me,” Courfeyrac said, no longer serious, and Grantaire laughed.

“Likewise! You know I have nothing nice to say, but you asked anyway and wound up exactly where you knew you would – annoyed and dissatisfied, a little with yourself for failing to convince me, but mostly with me for failing at everything. Now seriously – do you want another drink?”

Courfeyrac got up and stretched. “If you’re buying. I need one after that.”

Grantaire laughed again and looked at Enjolras, who shook his head. He rarely drank – drinking led to fewer inhibitions, which had led in the past to touching, which was never a good idea. Grantaire smiled, a soft quirk of their lips, and shrugged. They stood up in a fluid movement and blinked, swaying slightly. “Time to stop, perhaps?” Enjolras suggested dryly. Grantaire looked down at him and sighed.

“Ah, but that would mean wanting to stop.” Someone shouted their name and they went to walk away but managed to trip over the chair leg, or maybe their own feet, and to avoid falling down they slammed their hand down on the table, directly on top of Enjolras’.

_-shock-surprise-worry-warmth-pleasure-surprise-affection-care-_

It burst through Enjolras’ mind like a sudden flare of gold, and he sucked in a sharp breath. It vanished as soon as it had come – Grantaire pulling their hand away with an apologetic grimace – and without thinking Enjolras grabbed it again. The dizzying rush flooded back – _warmth-devotion-concern-care-yearning-want_ – and Enjolras stared up at Grantaire in shock, unable to properly reconcile what Grantaire looked like and the way they behaved with what was apparently in their head. Grantaire’s mouth was open, and Enjolras let go abruptly.

“Sorry! Sorry, I…are you alright?” he asked, scrambling for a suitable excuse for his strange action. Grantaire blinked and nodded.

“Um, yeah, fine – is your hand…I fell on it, sorry, I didn’t…”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras assured them, somehow unable to make himself look away.

Grantaire frowned at him, but their name was called again and they slipped away without another word. Enjolras stared after them, rubbing his hands together without thinking. The golden pleasure in Grantaire’s head had been associated with someone, he realised, recalling it in greater detail. Associated with him.

 

Enjolras didn’t touch people. Not skin-to-skin. Not _ever_. It was something about him that everyone else had come to accept as part and parcel of who he was. As long as they didn’t try to touch him, Enjolras didn’t really care what they thought, though he’d heard a few of the theories – that he’d been abused, that he wanted to keep up a reputation, that he wanted to be seen as ‘above’ the common desires of the flesh. He never confirmed or denied any of them when he happened to hear or see them.

None of them were true, so he told himself it didn’t matter. He’d resigned himself a long time ago to a life without any real physical contact. Even hugs were to be avoided – even if both parties were fully clothed, the sides of the head usually pressed against each other. Handshakes were downright unpleasant, though Enjolras had become adept at sidestepping them. Combeferre and Courfeyrac didn’t know the reasons behind his aversion to skin contact, but they both helped him evade it when necessary.

His best friends. He really didn’t deserve them.

Only his mother and his old nanny Rosaline knew the truth. He’d overheard them discussing it a couple of times when he was little; Rosa suggesting that it was something biological, something that could be scientifically explained; his mother convinced it was either a blessing from God or a curse from some equally mystical source. Both had agreed that no one should find out, and they’d impressed that on Enjolras from a young age with warnings about hospitals and tests and isolation.

It was lucky they’d known, really. Enjolras had been beautiful from birth, and looking back he knew only their joint efforts had kept him away from cooing relatives and friends who’d wanted to kiss his cheeks and stroke his hair. God knew how he would have reacted – Rosa had learned not to touch him if she was ever in anything but a pleasant mood, so what might he have done if he’d been petted by a stranger and picked up on any feelings they were keeping hidden under the surface?

Neither Rosa nor his mother had ever come up with a name for it. Enjolras had ended up tentatively calling it _psychically enhanced empathy_ after devouring every sci-fi and fantasy book with psychic characters he could find (most of them confirming their insistence that he keep his secret hidden on pain of experimentation and a ruined life). He’d read everything out there, including a truly depressing number of crackpot books and magazine articles that recommended everything from communicating with angels to playing with crystals, all to try and enhance natural abilities and open the inner eye. None of those books or articles ever had any advice about making it stop.

Though really, Enjolras was used to it by now. He’d tried getting close to people a couple of times and it hadn’t ever gone well, but as long as he had his friends he didn’t really feel like he was missing out on much.

He’d told himself that so many times that he actually believed it most of the time.

Most of the time.

Most of the time, he was content to focus on ‘less selfish endeavours’ as he called them. Things that deserved his time and energy – real problems that less fortunate people faced and dealt with on a daily basis. Things like prejudice, debt, and systems of oppression that needed dismantling. He wasn’t naïve. He knew there was only so much that they could do as a group of privileged young people, but at least they could do _something_ , even if their results were small.

(Compared to what some people had to go through, what did his problem matter? It was selfish to dwell on it, not to mention pointless. At least he had a hope of making some difference to society’s failures. There was nothing he could do about his inability to touch people like a normal human being.)

Courfeyrac had said once that it made more sense to think as though anything was possible, because that stirred enthusiasm and drew people better. Combeferre said passion and confidence were the key ingredients when it came to educating people. Those were the things to focus on, not his own issues.

Still…sometimes, very occasionally, he would fail and get fixed on his own limitations.

He had ways of dealing with it by now. He’d bookmarked inspiring stories of people who were perfectly happy living without any romantic or physical relationships, and he read those sometimes when he was feeling particularly down about the prospect of a future without either of those things. There were only so many times he could lie to himself and insist he didn’t care or didn’t want that, after all. Especially after seeing it everywhere he looked.

In movies, in books, on TV, in adverts, magazines, all over the internet, and in real life as well. People hugging and kissing cheeks when they met, shaking hands, holding hands (what he would give to hold someone’s hand), and couples and friends leaning into each other and embracing each other all the time. His friends were like that. Courfeyrac always seemed to be touching someone, and Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta were always tangled in some combination of the three of them. Bahorel had an easy physicality with everyone, and Jehan was one of those people who always touched people when ne met them, whether it was a hand on the arm or a tight hug.

Ne always gave Enjolras an especially big smile, but Enjolras watched nem hug Courfeyrac and kiss Combeferre’s cheek when they came in together and it made something in his chest ache horribly.

It wasn’t _fair_ , Enjolras wanted to scream sometimes, but there was nothing he could do about it, and no one he could tell. So when it got bad, and he couldn’t quite convince himself of his own lies, he had other ways of dealing with it.

Riding the métro in rush hour helped sometimes. Being packed in with dozens of other people who accepted the necessity of packing into a small space like sardines while making the effort to avoid all skin contact. It was perfect, and Enjolras sometimes rode for over an hour, just following the thickest crowds and always standing, holding a pole for support and concentrating on his breathing as bodies pressed in from all sides. It was wonderful, especially in winter when people allowed themselves to push up against each other with more ease, perhaps because of the layers of clothing in the way.

He would sometimes sit a little closer to Courfeyrac or Combeferre so he could brush up against them now and then (with a layer of clothing between them, obviously) and pretend it was normal. He always forced himself to be careful about how much contact he allowed himself, because he couldn’t let them think that he wanted to touch them or was okay with being touched. It was like walking a tightrope – he had to keep his balance and not lean too far to either side.

It was easier and safer to deal with it in solitude. Extra pillows lined down his bed could be hugged, and if he turned his back to them he could pretend there was someone else there. Hot water bottles were good when it was cold, giving warmth and having a heaviness pillows didn’t. Lying in such a way to cut off circulation to his hands so he could touch himself with them while they were numb and pretend they weren’t his was nice, however short-lived. Sometimes he didn’t bother with that and just touched himself and pretended, eyes closed and imagination racing as he brushed his fingers across his face and through his hair.

Rarely did he allow himself such indulgences. Not only were they ridiculous and selfish, but they only served to remind him of what he couldn’t have. His coping mechanisms were never more than short-term fixes for an ache that was never going to go away. He was never going to be able to have that closeness with someone, and hugging pillows and surreptitiously touching strangers only hammered home the sad fact that he was going to be alone forever.

He tried not to let himself spiral down too far. Lying on his sofa and crying wouldn’t do anything, so why waste time on it when he could be doing something useful? He was lucky. So he couldn’t touch people – so what? There were bigger things to worry about. In the long run, his petty discomforts meant nothing at all.

 

Enjolras woke up in a strange bed with an agonising headache, mouth foul-tasting and dryer than the Sahara. The room he was in was dark – windows opposite the bed thankfully covered by a pair of bluish curtains – and that was a small dot of good in an ocean of bad. Because he never woke up in strange beds, and he never drank enough to get hangovers this bad (he recognised it for what it was now), and he had absolutely no memory of how he’d come to wherever this was.

The last thing he remembered was…God, what? Start small, what had he done yesterday?

Research. Fruitless and pointless research into his own problem that he’d already done, because touching Grantaire had been so…unexpected. And incredible. But mostly unexpected. And it had shaken him a little, that was all, so…he’d what? Decided to buy out a liquor store?

He groaned and closed his eyes again, trying to remember.

He’d been on his laptop, getting more and more frustrated, and decided to break into the whiskey Courfeyrac had given him for Christmas. The bottle had been half-empty already, because Courfeyrac knew he’d been buying it partially for himself and he and Combeferre came over to Enjolras’ apartment often. Enjolras had finished the bottle and gone out to get more. _That_ he remembered. He remembered buying wine, the only kind of alcohol he ever liked drinking. He’d acted sober for the cashier, but she’d probably seen right through him.

What then? He’d…gone home?

God, why had he drunk so much?

Where the hell _was_ he?

Sitting up took a lot of inward persuasion, and not falling back to the pillow took even more, but he’d always been stubborn, and he was a little bit scared now. He was alone in this bedroom, but he was only wearing his boxers and his t-shirt. It was small and stuffy, and he looked around for any clue as to whose bedroom it was, head pounding hard enough to make him squint.

A chest of drawers under the window had a printer on one side, a big one, and most of it was covered in paper, mugs, and empty glasses. The floor space had been roughly cleared – there were crumpled clothes under the desk and shoved up against another chest of drawers – and the bin was overflowing. There were a few posters of art prints he didn’t recognise and a well-used dartboard on the back of the door. Enjolras hissed through his teeth and swung his legs out of the bed. They landed on a pile of material he recognised with some relief as his jeans, and he stood up slowly to pull them on.

He stank of booze, he realised as he pulled his phone from his pocket (at least he hadn’t been robbed). The display read 13:42 when he turned it on, and he stared at it in incomprehension for a long moment. He hadn’t slept past nine since…well not for a long time, at least. _Years_. He kept it in his hand as he stumbled over to the window and screwed his eyes shut in preparation for the light. It still hurt through closed eyelids, and he put a hand over his eyes for a moment to help them adjust.

The view, when he was finally able to look, wasn’t one he recognised. It looked down onto a quiet, slightly grubby-looking road, and he had to be at least four stories up.

Apart from the unholy hangover, he felt weak, but physically unharmed. Still. He really, _really_ hoped he hadn’t done anything stupid last night. When people woke up in strange beds, it usually only meant one thing, and just thinking that was a whole new level of terrifying he was in no way prepared to deal with right now.

Only one way to find out more. And if he didn’t drink some water soon, he might disintegrate on the spot. So he stepped over a small pile of dirty plates and bowls and opened the door slowly. The first thing he noticed was the familiar person asleep on the sofa opposite him, stretched out with their feet poking over the edge, a blanket crumpled on the floor next to them.

So he was in Grantaire’s apartment. At least that explained why he didn’t recognise it. He relaxed slightly, guilt rising as he realised that Grantaire had obviously let him take the bed while they slept on what looked like an uncomfortable sofa. And he didn’t even remember it. He didn’t even remember getting here, which raised another question – he hadn’t known before where Grantaire lived, so what had happened last night to make him find out and pay them a visit?

He looked around – locked door on the other side of the room, kitchen unit across one wall, a door in the wall behind him which led to what he assumed was the bathroom, tall windows around the corner – and remembered arriving, knocking on the door and stumbling in when Grantaire opened it, and…oh god, he’d hugged them, he’d practically draped himself all over them.

And it had felt amazing.

Enjolras closed his eyes for a long moment and went into the bathroom to stick his mouth under the sink and drink gulp after gulp of cold water until he couldn’t take any more. His mouth still felt fuzzy and disgusting, but a little less so.

He remembered the sensation of losing himself in Grantaire’s head, in the haze of pleased surprise, a little concern, but always that bright, intoxicating flush that sang when Enjolras smiled at them. Grantaire liked him. Liked him a lot. And feeling it, letting it rush over him and sweep him away, it was like nothing Enjolras had ever experienced before.

He wanted more, even now.

When he came out of the bathroom, deciding it would be rude to shower without at least asking first, Grantaire was awake. They smiled over the top of the sofa when Enjolras looked at them. “Afternoon. How’s your head?”

“Bad,” Enjolras admitted, and Grantaire grinned, the asshole.

“I’ve got some painkillers somewhere, gimme a minute.” They got up and walked past Enjolras to the kitchen unit. The urge to reach out and touch them was almost overwhelming, but Enjolras managed to keep his hands to himself and followed in silence. Grantaire rummaged in a couple of drawers and made a sound of triumph, throwing a box of pills at Enjolras which he barely managed to catch. “Water?”

“Please.”

He took two pills and leaned against the countertop as Grantaire set the kettle boiling. “You want coffee? Or I might have some weird tea somewhere.”

“Weird tea?” Enjolras asked, floundering.

Grantaire smiled crookedly. “Friend of mine works in a tea shop, and she gives me tea as presents. Let me see.” They reached up to a cupboard above the counter, t-shirt lifting to show a slice of skin above their hip. Enjolras wondered what it would feel like – smooth probably – and blinked when Grantaire dropped down with a cardboard box. “I’ve got…elderberry-cranberry, strawberries and cream, China gunpowder, milk oolong, and red honeybush. Oh, and another friend of mine sent me some rooibos from Joburg. More than I thought, actually.”

Enjolras stared at them for a moment. “Um. Coffee’s fine.”

“Yeah, I get intimidated by the options too,” Grantaire said easily, putting the box back. “Probably why I’ve still got so much – I can’t decide which one to drink at any given time, so I never drink any.”

“You could roll a die,” Enjolras suggested. “Six options, number them, let the die choose.”

“If I had any dice, I might actually do that,” Grantaire sounded pleased. “Coffee it is, in any case.”

Their words triggered a sudden memory. “Oh my god.” Enjolras’ knees wobbled, and he grabbed the counter for support.

“What? What is it?” Grantaire asked, eyes wide.

“I told you.”

He’d come to Grantaire because…because he was an idiot, but he’d come here and he’d practically jumped on them the moment they’d opened the door, and they’d both sat down and Enjolras had spilled everything. He’d told Grantaire _everything_.

“You told me a lot of stuff.” Grantaire said warily.

Enjolras felt lightheaded, and not in a good way. “I told you everything.”

“About the psychic stuff? You kinda did, yeah. Are you okay?”

“You believed me.”

Grantaire started to look uncertain. “Were you lying?” Enjolras stared at them for a long moment, and Grantaire raised their eyebrows. “You weren’t lying. It’s okay, I don’t…I won’t tell anyone.”

Enjolras lowered himself carefully to the floor and sat down. He knew he wouldn’t make it to the sofa. “I told you _everything_.”

Grantaire sat down next to him as though it was totally normal. “How much do you remember?”

Grantaire had asked him if he was okay, if Enjolras wanted them to call anyone, if there was anything they could do, and all that concern had just made it so much…well, worse in the sense that the feelings had been stronger, and better in the way that they’d made Enjolras feel safe and looked after and wanted. There hadn’t been a single part of Grantaire that had wanted him to leave or that was annoyed at him for barging in uninvited at god-only-knew what time of night, drunk off his face.

“I was so drunk,” Enjolras breathed, embarrassment catching up with him at last.

“You were pretty out of it,” Grantaire agreed. “But y’know, I’m totally used to that. Experiencing it, anyway, so I knew what to do. I thought that’s why you’d come, at first.”

“It wasn't.”

“Well I know that now.”

“You’re taking this very calmly.”

“I was sober enough to process it,” Grantaire shrugged.

Enjolras turned his head to stare at them. “You…I turned up completely smashed on your doorstep and you let me sleep in your bed.”

“Well I wasn’t going to kick you out,” Grantaire said defensively. “You could barely walk!”

“Oh my god.” Enjolras dropped his still-aching head into his hands. “I told you everything.” Another memory surfaced, of him sat cross legged on Grantaire’s bed, throat thick and head spinning. “I _cried_.”

“You…may have shed a few manly tears?” Grantaire was biting their lip when Enjolras lifted his head to give them an incredulous look. “Fine, yes, you cried. Look, I’m the last person to judge okay? I once cried so hard while I was drunk someone thought I was having a panic attack and called an ambulance. Try explaining that to your parents.”

Enjolras wanted to laugh, but he was too horrified at himself. “I’m never drinking again.”

Grantaire grinned. “If I had a euro for every time I’ve heard that.”

“I’m never drinking myself to the point of crying and memory loss again,” Enjolras amended.

“Now see, _that_ I actually believe.”

“You believed me last night too.” Enjolras stared at them again. Grantaire shrugged a shoulder and got up to do the coffee. Enjolras stayed on the ground and looked at Grantaire’s bare feet, shifting on the fake wooden floor. “Why did you believe me?”

“People tend to indulge in pathological lying more when they’re sober,” Grantaire said simply, mugs clinking as they got them out. The smell of instant coffee filled the air, and Enjolras breathed it in gratefully. “Besides, you really don’t seem like the kind of person who gets blind drunk and turns up at a person’s flat at two in the morning to tell them a pack of lies. What’s the point? You’re not that weird. Milk and sugar?”

“I might be. Milk, no sugar, thank you.”

Grantaire snorted. “You’re not. You’re way too invested in your life to do something so strange.”

Enjolras frowned at their feet. “What does that mean?”

“You like your life. You like what you do and you like where you are, so why play around with escapism fantasies? There’s literally no feasible endgame in doing what you did last night unless you just enjoy messing with people, and I’ve never seen you do that before. You’re too nice. I mean, remember that time Feuilly put a spider on Bossuet’s back? And you just casually walked over and took it off without Bossuet even knowing?”

“What about it?”

“It was a harmless prank, and you still didn’t want him to get all freaked out,” Grantaire explained. “You don’t mess with people. Not even for fun.”

Enjolras looked at his knees. “Bossuet’s scared of spiders. It was a mean prank.”

“It would’ve been really funny though,” Grantaire grinned and sat back down, holding two mugs of coffee. They put one on the floor and held the other out to Enjolras, handle-first so they wouldn’t touch accidentally.

“You really believe me,” Enjolras muttered, taking it and curling his whole body around it, knees pulled up and back curved over.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s ridiculous.”

“Eh, I entertain lots of ridiculous things. I’ve even had a ghostly experience.” They shrugged when Enjolras looked at them. “Long story. Point is, I believe you.”

“Why?”

Grantaire smiled slightly. “I’d believe anything you say.” Enjolras narrowed his eyes, thinking of the arguments he’d overheard and the dismissive comments Grantaire had made in the past. Apparently reading his mind, Grantaire waved a hand. “Okay, scratch that – I find it very difficult to believe a lot of the things you say, but you know, this is personal. So there’s that.”

Enjolras blew on his coffee and frowned. “What exactly did I say last night?”

“Um. Well.” Grantaire settled more comfortably with their back against the cupboards. “You turned up and…”

“Attacked you.”

“I wouldn’t call it attacking,” Grantaire protested. “More…very enthusiastic hugging? Relax, okay? Again, I can’t judge – I’ve been the touchy drunk way too many times for that.”

“I’ve never been the touchy _anything_.”

“Understandably,” Grantaire said. “So yeah, that happened, and I got you on the sofa and you…um…”

Had clung like a limpet, Enjolras remembered, hoping they could both pretend his flush was from the steam coming off the coffee. He’d pulled Grantaire onto the sofa with him and pretty much climbed into their lap. “I remember. Kill me.”

“No thanks. So yeah, that happened, so I thought something was the matter and I asked you and you kind of…blurted out what sounded like a load of bullshit at the time, but it made sense when I sorted through it later.”

He’d told Grantaire that touching them felt like summertime. Enjolras groaned. “Please kill me.”

Grantaire laughed quietly. “No. You said you didn’t want to leave, so I got you into the bedroom and then you sat on the bed and kind of broke down.”

“I will _pay_ you to kill me.”

“This is a no-kill, no-judgement zone, sorry. You made a lot more sense when you were crying, actually. I think it’s because you weren’t touching me.”

Enjolras remembered flashes, and he nodded, not looking at Grantaire. “It was.”

“Well. Yeah, so. You told me you were basically a psychic empath or whatever, and then you stopped crying long enough to go to sleep, and that’s it. You’re all caught up.”

Grantaire had held his hand until he dropped off, Enjolras remembered. They’d sat in his chair next to the bed and held Enjolras’ hand, suffusing him in comfort and acceptance, and it had been such a relief. To tell someone and not have to worry because he could feel that Grantaire believed him and still liked him. Still loved him.

Grantaire loved him.

Enjolras sipped his coffee and burned his tongue, not sure exactly what to do with this realisation, other than berate himself for not seeing it sooner. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“What for?”

“For…everything.” Enjolras figured his tongue was already scorched, so why stop sipping now? “I was a complete mess.”

“You were remarkably well-behaved, considering how drunk you were. I had a bucket ready and everything, but you didn’t even heave.”

Enjolras sighed. “Small mercies.”

Grantaire hummed and picked up their coffee, mirroring Enjolras’ pose. “I don’t mind. Feel free to drop by any time you decide to get plastered. Come before you drink the bottle dry and I’ll join you.”

“Did you miss the part where I said I’d never drink myself to that point again?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire shrugged, blowing on their coffee. In profile, they were oddly striking. Their hair was a mess, overlong and tangled, and Enjolras watched the shape of their lips change as they blew, skin pale in the light from the other end of the room. Grantaire glanced sideways and managed to give the impression of smiling without actually smiling.

They’d felt wistful last night, Enjolras remembered. An underlying layer of wistfulness, and faint guilt below that. They didn’t want Enjolras to know how they felt. They wanted it to stay a secret. From everyone? Or just from Enjolras? There was no way of telling – he couldn’t pick up specifics. Or maybe he could and he’d just never had the chance to experiment. Who would he have experimented with, after all?

“So what now?” Grantaire asked quietly. Not pushing, just curious. “I won’t tell anyone, so you don’t have to worry about that. You got pretty anxious about it last night.”

Enjolras remembered. “That’s one way of putting it.” God, he’d been _sobbing_. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried like that, utterly uninhibited, weeping into his hands like a child. Terrified of people finding out, he remembered. He’d told Grantaire and all the old fears and warnings had flooded back. He didn’t want to be a science project, poked and prodded and either paraded in front of people like a trained animal or locked away forever in some secret facility. As a rule, he didn’t believe in conspiracy theories, but he was far more inclined to err on the side of safety. Grantaire was right – he liked his life too much to risk losing his freedom over a personal secret.

He’d made Grantaire promise not to breathe a word, and Grantaire had squeezed his hand and sworn never to tell, and Enjolras had felt their determination, their fierceness, their sympathy. They could be trusted, and Enjolras knew that.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“We could pretend it never happened if you want,” Grantaire offered. Enjolras looked at them, frowning.

“How is that helpful? Besides, you said you wouldn’t tell anyway.”

“Hey, the psychic thing was only the second most surprising thing that happened last night.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows, apprehensive. “What was the most surprising?”

Grantaire’s lips quirked. “The fact that you knew where I lived and decided to pay me a visit. It would’ve been much easier to go home, or anywhere else, really, but you came here. I’m honoured.”

Enjolras frowned, a thought occurring, and pulled his phone out of his pocket. After a moment he closed his eyes and sighed. “I texted Jehan to ask where you lived.”

“Really?” Grantaire sounded delighted. “I wondered how you knew.”

“Well that’s one thing everyone will know by now.”

“What?”

“That I got so drunk I could barely type and asked specifically for you.”

“Did you tell Jehan why?”

“Autocorrect says I had something very important to tell you. Along with several random emoticons and a sentence about nerds being tossed home because dwells keep perfectly, apparently.” Oh, the magic of autocorrect. Then again, it was probably thanks to autocorrect that Jehan hadn’t received a page of keysmashing.

“Huh.” Grantaire took a sip of coffee. “You’ll have to come up with an excuse for that, I guess.”

Enjolras gave them a thoughtful look. “You said when I first turned up you thought I’d come to you because you had experience with being seriously drunk?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s the excuse.”

Grantaire laughed. “Simple and easy to remember, I like it.”

Enjolras sipped at his coffee, no longer scalding. “I really am sorry.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“I know.” Grantaire gave him a curious look and Enjolras bit his burned tongue. “I mean,” he tried to clarify, “I remember, last night, you didn’t…you were fine with everything, even when I was…well. You know.”

“Crying?”

“That. Thank you.”

Grantaire smiled at him, and Enjolras desperately wanted to touch them again, to see if they still felt like they had last night. If they were still golden and radiant and in love. “Like I said, any time.”

The words _can I?_ were on the tip of his tongue, but Enjolras held them back, carefully caged behind his teeth, because it wasn’t fair. What it _was_ was…a lot of things. It was a mess. “I’m a mess.”

Grantaire shook their head. “I’ve seen messes, and believe me, you’re fine.”

“Were any of those messes psychic?” Enjolras asked acidly.

Grantaire snorted. “Some people don’t need to be psychic to be messes.”

“You say it so easily,” Enjolras marvelled.

“How else would I say it? In hushed tones?” Grantaire gulped their coffee. “If I think about it, it’s weird, yeah. But I’ve been raised on a steady diet of bullshit and sci-fi, so it’s actually strangely easy to just take it in stride. Maybe I’ll freak out about it later, but probably not.”

“And you don’t think I’m…I don’t know, unhinged.”

Grantaire shrugged a shoulder. “You might have some sort of mental illness, but you seem to function fine if you do.”

“I can’t believe how calm you’re being about this.”

“Maybe I’m still in a state of shock.” Grantaire shot him a grin. “Enjolras knows where I live and crashed at my place. Asked Jehan _specifically_ for my address to do so.”

“You know why, don’t you?” Enjolras frowned.

Grantaire finished their coffee in two quick swallows. “From what I gathered last night, you like my brainwaves. Which is another thing I’m confused about, but I’m flattered. I always thought my brain was a fucked up beyond all recovery, but apparently it has some worth after all, so that’s nice to learn.”

Enjolras scowled at his coffee. “Everyone’s brain has worth. And it’s not brainwaves. I can’t read your mind or anything. Or anyone’s mind, for that matter.”

“Yeah, you said something about that,” Grantaire nodded. “That apparently you pick up flavours of emotions or something.”

“Flavours?” Enjolras considered it. “I suppose that’s not a bad way of putting it.”

“And most people don’t taste that great, but I do.” Grantaire grinned without looking at him, reclining elegantly against the cupboard behind them with one arm resting on their pulled-up knee, the other leg stretched out in front of them. “Again, flattered.”

“It’s not that other people taste bad,” Enjolras tried to explain, the flavours analogy already feeling wrong. “They just don’t…taste…like you. Can we not use flavours anymore? I sound like a cannibal.”

“But a _sophisticated_ cannibal, like Hannibal Lecter,” Grantaire smiled.

Enjolras sighed. “I feel more like Will Graham. No one should feel like Will Graham.”

“Point.” Grantaire looked at him. “Okay, how else would you describe it?”

“I don’t know.” Enjolras looked at the remains of his coffee. His headache had retreated to a distant throb, almost gone. “How do you describe emotions?”

“In colours, usually.”

“Gold, then.” Enjolras glanced at them. “You feel like gold.”

Grantaire held his gaze for a moment, then shook their head and looked forward again. “Maybe your powers are out of whack.”

“They’re not powers. And they’re not. That’s why I was so surprised when you fell on my hand in the Musain.”

“ _That’s_ what that was?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “You didn’t put that together? That’s why I started drinking.”

“Now that sounds more like me,” Grantaire’s smile twisted. “Driving people to drink.”

“I was frustrated, that’s all,” Enjolras sighed. “And for some reason I decided to just keep going when I ran out of whiskey.”

“ _You_ drink _whiskey?_ ”

“It was a present from Courfeyrac. I think I wanted to know how far I could go before I’d stop being confused,” he said, more to himself. “And then I…came here.” Because he’d been miserable and angry, he remembered. Furious and upset, and he’d wanted that warmth Grantaire had accidentally provided. Reassurance and safety.

He was confused again now, and even more conflicted than before. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”

“I told you, I don’t mind.”

Enjolras could slide his foot to the left just a few inches and press their skin together. He could do it. He wanted to. But he sighed again and finished his coffee instead.

“I can’t believe being in my head is anything worth searching me out for in the middle of the night,” Grantaire said, half-joking.

“I’m not in your head,” Enjolras told them, cradling the mug even though it was empty. “It’s not like that. I don’t hear thoughts or see memories or anything like that. Just surface emotions. Whatever you’re feeling when I’m touching you, that’s all.”

“But you liked it.” Grantaire sounded faintly amazed, and Enjolras looked at them.

“Is that so surprising?”

Grantaire shrugged and plucked at their pyjama bottoms. “A bit, I guess. It was really worth all that?”

Enjolras squeezed the mug, forcing himself to be honest. “Yes.”

Grantaire looked at him for a long moment. “You could if you wanted,” they said quietly. “I mean, I’m right here.”

Enjolras had never wanted anything so badly in his life. If he’d been holding a glass, he would have shattered it by now. “I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s invasive,” Enjolras muttered. “People don’t say what’s on their mind for a reason. What you don’t say is private, and if I’m touching someone, there’s no privacy.”

“Could you tell if someone was lying?” Grantaire asked, intrigued.

“I don’t know.” Enjolras admitted. “I’ve never tried. I tend to avoid touching people.”

“Try.” Grantaire offered their hand, and Enjolras hesitated, knuckles turning white. “I won’t bite,” Grantaire smirked, and Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to keep saying no. He let go of the mug with one hand and reached out very slowly, his hand hovering over Grantaire’s for a second before one of Grantaire’s fingers brushed his. Only for a fraction of a second, but the flash of warmth was there – _care-tenderness-curiosity-want-affection_ – and Enjolras slid his fingers through Grantaire’s and held on tight, instinctively seeking more.

_-pleasure-happiness-safety-care-yearning-wonder-content-want-warmth-_

His other hand relaxed around the mug, and he tilted his head back against the cupboard behind him. It was the same as before – like golden light, an instant relaxant. There weren’t enough adjectives to describe the sensation of languid pleasure that Grantaire felt and made him feel. Their skin was warm and dry, their palm surprisingly wide, and Enjolras couldn’t believe how _good_ it felt to hold someone else’s hand. And Grantaire’s feelings, emotions, whatever, really were like summertime – like an idealistic mental snapshot of gentle warmth and the feeling of having nowhere else to be and nothing else to do. That everything was alright.

Grantaire felt this way because Enjolras was next to them, Enjolras realised. There were other feelings below the surface – doubt, nervousness, something –

“What does it feel like?” Grantaire asked tentatively.

Enjolras closed his eyes and tried to order his thoughts. “It’s like gold, like I said before. But without colours. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“But it’s nice?”

Enjolras let out a long breath and lowered their hands to the floor, holding on tight. “It’s…nice is one word, yeah.”

Grantaire shifted a little closer and Enjolras hummed low in his throat, headache completely gone, stomach no longer twinging unpleasantly. “What can you feel?”

Enjolras realised he was squeezing Grantaire’s hand probably tighter than was comfortable, and made a conscious effort to relax. Like a reward, Grantaire’s fingers curled up around his knuckles, more skin contact, and Enjolras sighed. “You mean, what emotions and stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“Surely you already know?” He could probably fall asleep like this; he was so relaxed.

“Not always.” Grantaire’s thumb stroked along the edge of his – a reflex, or deliberate? Enjolras couldn’t tell. “Go on, wow me. You were too drunk last night.”

“Don’t remind me.” Enjolras took a deep breath and focused on what he was getting from Grantaire. “You…are you sure?”

Grantaire squeezed his hand – _affection-amusement-desire_ – and when they spoke Enjolras could tell they were smiling. “Yes, go on.”

“You remember what I said about the no privacy thing, right?” Enjolras muttered, eyes still closed.

“It was less than five minutes ago – my memory isn’t that bad.” Fondness swirled through Enjolras’ mind, and he smiled.

“You’re happy,” he told Grantaire quietly. “Or…comfortable, at least.”

“Content?”

“Yeah.” Enjolras took another deep breath and tried to sift through the emotions Grantaire was giving him. “There’s more, it’s just…difficult to separate them. They’re all mixed up.”

“Try and tell if I’m lying,” Grantaire said eagerly.

Enjolras snorted. “Fine, go on.”

“Okay, true or false – I have a tattoo of an apple on my leg.”

Enjolras couldn’t feel anything but a sense of playfulness, and he shook his head with a smile. “No idea.”

“True or false – I’m scared of the ocean.”

Curiosity, but nothing concrete, so Enjolras shrugged. “Can’t tell. Are you?”

“I wouldn’t say _scared_ ,” Grantaire said, “but I wouldn’t go swimming in it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like not being able to touch the bottom, and the sea is way too big for me not to get freaked out. If outdoor swimming is a thing that’s happening, I prefer freshwater to salt.”

“And do you have a tattoo of an apple on your leg?”

Grantaire huffed a laugh. “No. Might have a tattoo of something, but it’s not an apple.”

“Tattoo of what?”

“You look practically stoned right now, did you know that?”

“Shut up,” Enjolras muttered without heat. “It feels nice.”

Grantaire was quiet for a moment, and Enjolras floated on a haze of what they weren’t saying – contentment, pleasure, fondness, a little of that wistfulness he’d picked up on last night. “Can’t believe there’s anything in me nice enough to have this effect on you.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Enjolras said lazily. “It’s amazing. You’re amazing.”

Grantaire laughed. “Maybe you are high.”

“I don’t think emotions count as a drug.”

“God, that’s a weird thought. Hey, if you touched someone while _they_ were high, do you think you’d feel it too? Stoned by proxy?”

“I’d rather not try. This is enough,” he added, too honest.

Grantaire made a sceptical sound. “Maybe it’s just because you’re here.”

“I…you think so?” Enjolras flexed his fingers slightly and opened his eyes at last, turning to look at Grantaire, who studied their knees and shrugged.

“Maybe. Shouldn’t you be able to tell?”

_-daring-trepidation-want-longing-wariness-_

“I can sort of…” Enjolras hesitated. “I did tell you there wasn’t any privacy.”

Grantaire looked at him, eyebrows raised. “So what’re you picking up?”

“Are you sure?” Enjolras frowned, feeling some sort of recklessness fluttering beneath Grantaire’s surface emotions.

“Wow me.”

“It feels like…” Enjolras hesitated, but Grantaire didn’t stop him. “Like you’re in love with me.”

Fear, like nausea, and Grantaire pulled their hand away, leaving a sudden emptiness behind. Enjolras curled his fingers into his palm, closing the gaps where Grantaire’s had been, and wrapped his arms around his knees. He didn’t dare look at Grantaire.

He didn’t want to say he didn’t mind, because that just seemed like he was dismissing Grantaire’s feelings, and he didn’t want to ask them if they could keep holding hands, because that sounded like he was prioritising his own desires over Grantaire’s. But he didn’t know what else to do. “Sorry,” he whispered, not sure what he was apologising for, but getting the vague idea that he needed to apologise for something.

“It’s okay, I’m just…I’ll just…” Grantaire got to their feet quickly, and Enjolras followed suit, putting his empty mug on the countertop. “It’s fine.” Grantaire looked down, anywhere but Enjolras, and stooped to grab their own mug off the floor. “You don’t have to stay or anything,” they added, shoulders hunching slightly, and Enjolras shouldn’t have been stung by that, but he stepped away all the same, nodding.

“Right, of course. I…thanks again, for last night.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Grantaire’s attempt at a smile looked more like a grimace, and Enjolras looked away, scanning the flat for his shoes. There – by the door, next to his jacket. He didn’t think he’d brought anything else.

“I’ll see you around then,” he said, one hand on the door. Grantaire nodded without looking around, preoccupied with washing up the coffee mugs.

“See you.”

The corridor outside was quiet and cold, and Enjolras stayed there for a few seconds, strangely bereft. But Grantaire had as good as told him to get out, and he’d imposed enough. And certainly embarrassed himself enough. He zipped up his jacket and opened a map app on his phone to find out where exactly he was. It was a long way from here to his own apartment.

 

The excuse of wanting to go to Grantaire’s because they had experience with being inadvisably drunk worked well – so well that no one even questioned it. And Enjolras tried to act normal. It was just difficult when Grantaire was _right there_ every time everyone hung out together, and at every meeting. Enjolras had never really paid much attention to them before, but now he felt like he was practically spying on them.

Grantaire was loud and inappropriate, and teased the others incessantly. They were capable of bringing Marius to a blush so bright it could probably fry eggs, and they could drink an entire bottle of wine on their own and still launch into an argument with Bahorel over the use of religion as a point of inspiration in art and music. And then they’d win, and immediately afterwards laugh and proclaim that they’d been talking shit the whole time, just to make Bahorel lose his temper.

Grantaire and Jehan took weed breaks together, and Enjolras could look out of the window and see the two of them on the other side of the alley out the back of the Corinthe, leaning against a wall and laughing with each other as they passed a joint back and forth. Grantaire could sit between Joly and Bossuet and have conversations that seemed to be entirely comprised of quotes and puns, none of them stopping until they couldn’t actually speak because they were laughing so hard.

Grantaire was irritating – full of interruptions and needling little quips designed to trip up whoever was talking – and they played Devil’s advocate with just enough of a sneer to drive whoever was arguing with them incoherent with fury. When they were in a bad mood, they would sigh and sit in silence, drinking more than usual and frowning at nothing, and if someone tried to cheer them up, they would tell whoever it was to leave them alone and let them drown themselves in peace. If their friends persisted, Grantaire would snap at them or leave.

When Grantaire wore skirts and dresses, they were always long and flowing, the hems never above the shins. Their favourite skirt seemed to be a patchwork thing which had perhaps once had bright colours, but was now dusty and faded, and they liked to wear it with combat boots. Once, Grantaire had allowed Bossuet to make them up during a meeting, sitting still for once as Bossuet carefully applied eyeliner and foundation, grinning for photos when it was done, rolling their eyes when Joly called them pretty.

Enjolras wanted to touch them again. He wanted to know what was running under Grantaire’s skin when they sat back and smiled at the room, when Cosette draped herself over their shoulders and kissed their cheeks, when they arm-wrestled with Bahorel, when they talked to Feuilly and Musichetta about the state of education. He wanted to know whether that cocktail of golden warmth was reserved for him alone or whether it extended to all their friends. He wanted to know more. But Grantaire was avoiding him – wouldn’t even look at him – and Enjolras didn’t want to make them uncomfortable.

He’d told himself for so long that he didn’t need human contact, but he found himself running his hands over his own skin and imagining someone else touching him with alarming regularity now. He slept more to lose himself in unconsciousness, pillows surrounding him more often than not. When he touched his lips with his fingers or the rim of a mug or anything at all, he lingered and let his mind wander.

(He’d tried kissing twice. Once with a girl at a school dance, which he shouldn’t have done in the first place because he’d known from a young age that he wasn’t interested in girls, and once with a boy at a party in university. That had been slightly better, but still…not entirely pleasant. The physical side had been nice enough, but he hadn’t been able to get past the way the boy didn’t care about him. If Grantaire was gold, that boy had been grey like grit.)

The idea of kissing Grantaire was…not unwelcome. Or if Enjolras was being honest with himself, it was quickly becoming a fantasy. An unattainable fantasy, if the way Grantaire was avoiding him was any indication, but still something he was beginning to think of far more than he should.

But it wasn’t fair. It was a mess (he was a mess) and it wasn’t fair, so Enjolras tried yet again to resign himself to solitude. It was harder now that he’d found someone he actually _wanted_ to touch, but it was fine. He had so little to complain about in his life, really. It was fine. He was fine.

 

Enjolras didn’t register the shouts at first. He was a little tipsy, Cosette having insisted on him joining in the drinking games for her birthday, and he’d ducked outside to get some air. The back of her apartment building opened into a little courtyard shared by the buildings around, and Enjolras looked up in surprise when he realised that the trio of teenagers on the other side of the yard were shouting at him.

“Backs to the wall!” one of them yelled.

“Oooh, he’s looking, he’s looking!”

“He likes you,” one of them sniggered, shoving another, who shoved him back with a sound of amused disgust.

Enjolras frowned at them and remembered suddenly that he was wearing the t-shirt Courfeyrac had bought for him last year for the pride parade – a simple rainbow banner with liberté-égalité-fraternité above it and PRIDE stamped below. He hadn’t even thought about it before putting it on – he wore it around his friends often enough.

“Ah, look at him, he’s shy!” one of the boys crowed. They couldn’t be older than eighteen, Enjolras guessed, though two of them were tall enough to be grown men. He narrowed his eyes when one of them pushed another closer, the three of them crossing the courtyard.

He should probably go back inside.

“You a gay?” one of them asked. His lip was curled, blonde hair gelled and smooth.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow, hovering between annoyed and exasperated. “What gave me away? The shirt, or our natural chemistry?”

The other two boys laughed, but blondie wasn’t amused, scowl coming out. “You think that’s funny? Try anything funny and I’ll smash your fucking head open, you got that?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. The door back into the building was two steps away, but one of the other boys was in the way. “Calm down. You’re not my type.”

Blondie stepped closer, practically snarling. “You’re disgusting, you know that? A fucking disease.”

Enjolras straightened and stepped forward, forcing him back. “Ignorance like yours is the only real disease here. You think you’re something special because you like intimidating people? You’re pathetic. You wouldn’t have even said anything if you didn’t have your pets here to back you up. You want to start something, go right ahead.”

Blondie’s friends weren’t laughing anymore, but before anything could happen, the door opened and Grantaire came out, cigarette already pinched between their lips and lighter in hand. They raised their eyebrows when they saw the scene, and slipped the cigarette behind their ear. “Everything alright?” They ignored the hoots of laughter that greeted their appearance – they’d worn a long blue skirt for the occasion, and the boys were hardly making an effort to stifle their cackles.

Blondie looked between them, lip curled, then stepped back and spat on the floor. “You stay away from me, fags.”

“Go and educate yourself, asshole,” Enjolras snapped.

One of the other boys lurched forward and Enjolras rounded on him, fist clenched tight. “You’d better watch yourself,” the boy growled.

“Try me,” Enjolras challenged.

“Enjolras!”

A hand on his fist and Enjolras’ anger was overwhelmed – _concern-authority-care-protectiveness-warmth_ – by feelings that weren’t his. He looked sideways in shock, meeting Grantaire’s eyes. Grantaire held his gaze calmly, fingers shifting gently on Enjolras’ knuckles until his fist uncurled, accepting the restraint. Grantaire was touching him – everything was okay.

The three boys made retching sounds, and the one Enjolras had almost attacked sneered. “Go take it up the ass from your toyboy, bitch.”

Enjolras turned, but Grantaire was faster – _anger-cold-defiance-scorn_ – hand leaving Enjolras’ to slam into the boy’s shoulder hard enough to knock him to the ground. Enjolras stared as Grantaire bared their teeth at the other two. “If either of you are thinking of retaliating, I wouldn’t try it. Re-tal-i-at-ing? It’s a big word for you, I know – in this case it means being a fucking idiot and trying to take on a professional kickboxing instructor. That would be me, in case you were wondering.” As they spoke, blondie helped his friend to his feet and the three of them backed up a little, glaring at Grantaire, who just smiled. “Why don’t you go back inside and pretend you’re big tough men, yeah? I promise not to tell your parents.” They shook their head derisively and turned to go, tapping Enjolras’ arm as they did. “Coming?”

Enjolras wanted to run at the boys and throw them all down on the ground, kick them till they screamed. But Grantaire wanted to go back inside, and Enjolras…wanted to stay with them. Perhaps Grantaire had decided to stop avoiding him. So, “Yeah,” he said, following them into the hall and shaking his head. “Did you just do that so you could hit him yourself?”

Grantaire snorted, but then leaned against the wall and gave Enjolras a crooked smile. “Nah. I figured if you hit him, you’d have to touch him.”

Enjolras smiled. “You know I’ve hit people before, right?”

“Is it ever a pleasant experience?” Grantaire asked pointedly. Enjolras leaned against the wall opposite them and shrugged.

“No, but it’s over fast.”

“True. Their parents must be so proud.”

Enjolras looked at the door. “They might well be.”

“Good point. Wow, that’s depressing.”

“Mm. Sorry.” Enjolras looked down, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets to keep himself from reaching out to Grantaire.

“Why were you out there anyway? You don’t smoke.”

“I wanted some air,” Enjolras shrugged. “And I didn’t want to play ‘never have I ever’, unsurprisingly.”

“Unsurprisingly?”

Enjolras shot them a look. “Should I just get a t-shirt that says ‘ultimate virgin’? You didn’t even want me punching someone a moment ago.”

“Oh, right.” Grantaire gave him an embarrassed smile. “Sorry.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “It’s not like I’m ashamed of it. I’d just rather not sit there while everyone else talks about what I can’t do.”

“Fair enough.” Grantaire pushed off the wall and went to the door, peeking out. “Oh thank fuck – they’re gone.” They grinned over their shoulder at Enjolras and pulled their cigarette from behind their ear. “I’m dying for a smoke.”

Enjolras followed them outside and stood against the wall next to them, hands curled into fists out of sight. “Thanks,” he said, not sure of what else to say. “How’s your hand, by the way?”

Grantaire lit up and inhaled, studying the knuckles of their left hand, the one they’d punched the boy with. “Alright. What even happened anyway?” They turned their face away to exhale a plume of smoke, slouching comfortably against the wall.

Enjolras looked over at where the boys had been standing when he’d first come outside. “They took offense at my shirt.”

Grantaire blinked, squinting at it. “Huh. Good thing I came when I did, isn’t it?”

“My hero,” Enjolras said sarcastically. “I would’ve been fine.”

“Against three of them?”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes at Grantaire’s pointed expression. “I would’ve been fine.”

Grantaire smirked. “Sure. You would’ve eviscerated them with your stellar powers of debate, I get it.”

Enjolras huffed. “Shut up.”

“Wow, you’re on _form_ tonight.”

Enjolras sighed and tipped his head back against the rough outside of the building, looking up at the overcast sky. “Bite me.”

“Looks like alcohol really is your weakness,” Grantaire snickered. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so incapable of putting up a verbal fight.”

“That’s not true,” Enjolras reminded them. Grantaire hummed and looked forward, sucking on their cigarette.

“You coming out tonight?” they asked after a moment.

“Do you think I should?” Enjolras asked frankly. It was the plan to move onto a club or two after the drinking games were over – they were probably close to leaving now.

Grantaire shrugged. “Up to you, isn’t it? I guess…do you like clubs much? Or is there too much skin?”

Enjolras made a non-committal sound. “It depends how crowded it is. It’s not really my thing anyway. I’m not a good dancer.”

“Everyone’s a good dancer when they’re drunk,” Grantaire disagreed, finishing their cigarette in what was probably record time. They dropped it to the paving stones and ground it out with their toe. “You should come out. It’s Cosette’s birthday.”

Enjolras heaved a sigh. “I’m not nearly drunk enough to go out.”

“We can change that,” Grantaire promised, walking past Enjolras to the door and holding it open. “Come on.”

“Do I even want to get drunk and go out?” Enjolras asked the world in general.

“It’s Cosette’s birthday,” Grantaire said firmly, ushering him inside. “You’re obligated as a friend. Also, you’re less scary when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not scary,” Enjolras protested, starting up the stairs.

“If you’re not scary, you’re definitely intimidating,” Grantaire told him, jumping up to climb alongside him. “Probably doesn’t help that you don’t touch anyone.”

“I can’t help that,” Enjolras scowled.

“Doesn’t have to be skin to skin,” Grantaire shrugged, and nudged their shoulders together as they turned a corner. “Like that.”

Enjolras huffed. “Easy for you to say.”

“Is touching people really that bad?”

“It’s uncomfortable.” Enjolras let Grantaire take the lead, following a couple of steps behind. “Unpleasant, usually, unless they’re in a really good mood, and even then it can be…just weird. Like…I don’t know, being hijacked? I can’t think of a good way to put it.”

They climbed in silence for a minute or so before Grantaire spoke again. “Why don’t you tell C-squared?”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Enjolras sighed. “I want to, but I don’t want to risk it. I only told you because I was astronomically drunk. And what if they don’t believe me?”

“They’re your best friends.” Grantaire said it like it was so simple.

“ _I_ wouldn’t believe me,” Enjolras told them flatly. “I still don’t understand why you do.”

“Well you’re clearly affected by _something_ when you touch me, so there’s that.” Grantaire gave him a smile over his shoulder. “And like I said before, you’re not the kind of guy who messes with people.”

“Disregarding the fact that I might have a brain tumour or something that just makes me think I can feel what other people are feeling when I touch them.”

Grantaire turned to face him as they reached Cosette’s floor and frowned. “Do you think you have a tumour?”

Enjolras hesitated, a little out of breath from climbing so many stairs. “If I do, it’s been there since birth. And I don’t get headaches or nausea. I’ve never had a seizure or vision loss, or any of the other common symptoms.”

“You’ve looked this stuff up?” Grantaire sounded surprised, and Enjolras laughed, a little bitter.

“I’ve probably wasted entire weeks of my life looking for what could be wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Grantaire said, apparently automatically. Enjolras rolled his eyes.

“If I have to argue about this, I’ll get maudlin. You said you’d get me drunk – deliver.”

“Wow, bossy.” Grantaire smirked and jerked their head at the corridor. The door to Cosette’s apartment opened just before they got to it and music spilled out into the hall.

“R! Enjolras!” Feuilly hung off the doorframe and beamed at them. “Took your time! We’re about to go!”

“Two seconds!” Grantaire insisted, beckoning for Enjolras to follow them. “Okay, if there’s one sure-fire way to get drunk fast –”

“Please don’t say shots,” Enjolras sighed.

“Chetta!” Grantaire bellowed. “Is there any vodka left?”

Enjolras slipped past Marius and into the little kitchenette. Cosette only had a one-room flat, but it was beautifully decorated, and roomier than it looked when the furniture was pushed against the walls. “I hate you,” he informed Grantaire when they followed Enjolras behind the counter with a bottle in their hand.

“You asked me to deliver, I’m delivering,” Grantaire countered, jiggling the bottle, which was still a third full. Enjolras eyed it warily, and Grantaire winked, putting it on the table and leaning over it to flap a hand at Joly. “Oi, pass me a couple of shot glasses. Anyone else fancy helping to finish this off?” they shouted, lifting the bottle.

“I will!” Jehan’s hand appeared from the sofa where ne was lying under Éponine and Combeferre. “Just a couple though!”

“Group effort!” Grantaire encouraged, gesturing for Joly to pass them more shot glasses. They filled two and slid one towards Enjolras, lifting their own with a smile. “You don’t have to,” they said quietly.

Enjolras looked over at Cosette, who was practically wrapped around Courfeyrac like a giggly octopus. “If I’m coming out, I’ll need it,” he decided, lifting his glass and taking a deep breath before swallowing the contents with a grimace. “Urgh.”

Grantaire knocked their own back without flinching and nodded. “Anyone who says they like shots is a lying bastard,” they said seriously, filling up five glasses and grinning at Jehan when ne came over. “Drink up, Prouvaire.”

“Wait, me too!” Bahorel stumbled against the counter and grabbed a glass, spilling a little on the counter as he lifted it. “All together!”

Enjolras took another and dutifully clicked it against everyone else’s before bracing himself and downing it. “ _Urgh_. This is horrible.”

“But it’s fast,” Grantaire reminded him, filling the glasses up again. “Just like punching someone. Chetta, you want some?”

“It’s Cosette’s present, ask her!” Musichetta shouted over.

“Cosette!” Grantaire bellowed. “Shots?”

“Shots for the birthday girl!” Courfeyrac cried, pulling her over. She was flushed and breathless, and reached out for Marius as soon as he was in arm’s length. He and Courfeyrac held her up, and Courfeyrac kissed Marius’ cheek over her head, Marius giving them both a goofy grin in return.

Enjolras took another shot without waiting for the others, irritated at how jealous he was of them. Grantaire moved along the counter to make room for Bahorel and Feuilly, and nudged their foot against Enjolras’ out of sight of everyone else before refilling his glass without a word.

Enjolras would have drunk the bottle dry if it meant he could hold Grantaire’s hand again, and the realisation made him want to throw his glass against the wall. It wasn’t _fair_.

But forcing himself on Grantaire just because it would make him feel better wasn’t fair either, so he had another shot and took a couple of gulps of Feuilly’s offered beer to wash away the taste. Combeferre pulled him into a hug as they left, glasses askew and grin wide. “I didn’t think you’d come!”

The side of his face pressed against Enjolras’, and he couldn’t help smiling at the giddy rush of elation that flooded from Combeferre to him. “Grantaire persuaded me.”

“The R stands for resplendent,” Combeferre told him grandly, keeping an arm around his shoulders. Enjolras allowed it, leaning into it and even going as far as wrapping an arm around Combeferre’s waist. Combeferre made a pleased sound and laughed. “He thinks it stands for repulsive, but he’s wrong. You’re friendly tonight.” He squeezed Enjolras’ shoulders.

“Pretend I’m the guy from that TV show Courfeyrac likes,” Enjolras told him, inspiration hitting him out of nowhere. “The daisies one.”

“Pushing Daisies?”

“Pie man who can’t touch his girlfriend.”

“That’s the one.”

“Pretend I’m him,” Enjolras said, and smiled when Combeferre grinned.

“Whatever you like. Is this the skin thing?”

“It’s a mess,” Enjolras told him instead of answering properly, and Combeferre squeezed his shoulders again with a hum.

“Whatever you like. If you’re coming out, you have to dance, you know.”

“Why do you think I drank so much before we left?”

Combeferre laughed, and Courfeyrac appeared on Enjolras’ other side to bump his forehead against Enjolras’ shoulder. “Hey, is hugging a thing we can do now?”

“Pretend he’s Ned from Pushing Daisies,” Combeferre told him, “and we’re all Chuck.”

“But hugging is okay?”

They both looked at him and Enjolras shrugged helplessly. “Yes?”

“Sweet!” Courfeyrac slipped an arm around his waist and practically welded himself to Enjolras’ hip. “Don’t hesitate to tell us to fuck off,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s go dancing!”

Ahead of them, Grantaire looked over their shoulder and raised their eyebrows at the scene with a smile. Enjolras grinned back, warmer than he’d ever been with the arms of his best friends wrapped around him, closer than he’d ever allowed them before. “You’re my best friends,” he told them seriously, and Courfeyrac laughed.

“You’re a charmer when you’re drunk, aren’t you?”

“I’m not that drunk,” Enjolras protested.

“Right, because you weren’t stumbling before I started helping you,” Combeferre snorted.

“Excuse you,” Enjolras said, “I could walk fine if I wanted. I just don’t want to.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “I believe you, Enjolras,” he said, a little too loudly. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Jehan burst into song. “Don’t worry! About a thing! Cause every little thing, it’s gonna be alright!”

Enjolras closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed with affection for these brilliant people he’d been lucky enough to find. Inside the club, Cosette insisted on buying everyone one last shot, and Enjolras let Courfeyrac take his wrist, covered by his jacket, and pull him out onto the dance floor with the others. A new song started up as they found their way into the middle of the mass of bodies and Courfeyrac whooped, evidently recognising it.

“I hear your heart beat to the beat of the drums!” he sang joyfully in Enjolras’ face, making him laugh. “Oh what a shame that you came here with someone, but while you’re here in my arms, let’s make the most of the night like we’re gonna die young!” His accent was strong on the English lyrics, but Enjolras just smiled, purposely brushing Courfeyrac’s hand with his own. A burst of excitement and happiness exploded through his head like a flash of colour and Enjolras grinned.

Sometimes, maybe the psychic thing wasn’t _all_ bad.

 

Grantaire was outside with Feuilly and Éponine when Enjolras stumbled out of the door into the smoking area. He wished there was somewhere to sit down, but there was just the wall. He slumped against it anyway and turned his face up to the sky, sighing in relief at the light drizzle that fell on his overheated skin.

“You alright?” Feuilly asked, and Enjolras waved a hand.

“Fine. Just hot.”

Grantaire appeared next to him, back falling with a solid thump against the wall. “So, having a good time?”

“I’m…not sure.” Enjolras admitted, still uncomfortably warm and reeling from the experience of accidentally touching a girl’s arm and feeling her despair and unhappiness sear through his mind like a scream. He’d almost fallen over. She’d looked fine on the outside. People were so good at hiding what they were feeling. “I think I’ve had…too much to drink?”

“You sound a bit wobbly,” Grantaire agreed.

“’m usually fine.” Enjolras slouched slightly and lowered his voice. “In general, I mean. Maybe drinking makes me sad?”

“You’ll be alright.” Grantaire bumped their shoulders together companiably. “You’re Enjolras.”

Enjolras huffed a humourless laugh and closed his eyes again. He wanted to tell Grantaire that sometimes he felt empty, like a vessel for the emotions of other people to be expressed through. An instrument, incapable of producing anything on its own. That he was sometimes scared he wasn’t entirely human. Most of the time he was fine; he was confident, he was happy, he was driven to help people and change things for the better. But sometimes…just occasionally… “If I hadn’t come out, d’you know what I’d’ve done?” Enjolras looked at Grantaire.

“What?” Grantaire smiled at him, and all Enjolras wanted to do was take their hand.

“Gone to bed,” he said, restraining himself. “I think I would’ve been okay with that. I think I should…I think I should probably go.”

Grantaire frowned slightly. “You feeling okay?”

“The world seems to be flying upwards,” Enjolras confessed quietly. “I think I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. Like you said – ‘m always fine.”

Grantaire bit their lip and glanced over at Feuilly and Éponine, who were chatting to a couple of girls Enjolras didn’t recognise. “You want me to…I don’t know, make sure you get back okay?”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “I’m _fine_.”

Grantaire wrinkled their nose. “Stand up straight for a sec?” Enjolras rolled his eyes (bad idea) and pushed off from the wall. He only staggered a little, but it made Grantaire shake their head. “Nah, I’ll go with you.”

“I’m not…” Enjolras paused and refused to steady himself with a hand on the wall. He had to concentrate to stop swaying, but he wasn’t a charity case, for god’s sake. “It’s fine,” he insisted, searching for the right words. “I’m fine. I have a map app.”

“And a stubborn streak wider than Paris,” Grantaire said cheerfully. “I’m bored anyway. Let’s go.”

Enjolras caught their arm and made an effort to control his grip. He couldn’t quite tell whether it was working, but Grantaire was staring at him, and it was okay because their skin wasn’t touching, so it was acceptable. It was fine. “I don’t need a babysitter,” Enjolras told them. “I’m not your resonsi…res _pon_ sibility.”

“Maybe I enjoy your company,” Grantaire said, waving a hand at Feuilly and Éponine. “We’re off! Tell Cosette happy birthday again, yeah?”

“Which one of you is the designated driver?” Éponine smirked. Enjolras scowled, letting go of Grantaire’s arm as they flipped her off with a grin.

“We’re both half sober, so we’ll keep each other out of trouble.”

“Text when you get home,” Feuilly ordered, and Grantaire saluted. “You too,” Feuilly added, giving Enjolras a serious look.

“I will,” Enjolras promised without really thinking, wanting Feuilly to relax. It worked, earning him a smile, and then Grantaire’s hand was on his shoulder, steering him away from the club and onto the road. “Does he always do that?” Enjolras asked, curious. He didn’t come out with them often enough to know. Grantaire shrugged.

“If it’s not Feuilly, it’s someone else. Always good to know everyone’s home safe, y’know? I’m obligated by oath to text Bahorel if I get lost or fucked up,” they added, offhand. “I feel like a right asshole sometimes because of all the shit I’ve put him through while I’ve been off my face. I’m trying to ease up a little. Tonight’s been one of the better ones.”

“I noticed,” Enjolras told them. “You used to be worse. Last year –”

“Not a good time,” Grantaire agreed with a twist of their mouth. “Or the year before that. Or the year before that. Or ever, really.”

“You’re still wonderful though,” Enjolras told them simply. “I think so anyway.”

Grantaire smiled at him, surprised. “Wow, you are drunk.”

Enjolras frowned. “I don’t need to be drunk to think that. Or say it.” They crossed a road, and as they stepped up onto the pavement, Enjolras’ toe caught the edge and he stumbled forward. Grantaire caught his arm and pulled him back upright.

“Not drunk at all, yeah,” they said sarcastically.

Enjolras slipped an arm around their waist and leaned against their side, closing his eyes. “Shut up,” he muttered. “It’s Cosette’s birthday.” Grantaire’s arm settled around his hips and Enjolras sighed, the two of them finding a rhythm as they walked.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have given you those shots,” Grantaire said quietly, sounding amused. Enjolras huffed, careful not to let his head fall against Grantaire’s.

“I asked you to. I wish I could always do this,” he added impulsively.

“What, get smashed?”

“Hug people.” Enjolras spread his palm against the material of Grantaire’s jacket. It was soft, and cool from the night air, with Grantaire’s body firm and solid underneath it.

“You could, couldn’t you? Like I said earlier. Just don’t touch skin.”

“But then people expect it, even when skin is exposed,” Enjolras sighed. “And I’ve spent so long _not_ touching it’d be…weird, it’d be strange if I started now. I can’t. I’m not…I can’t. Did you know not touching children in a positive way counts as emotional neglect?” he added, then groaned. “Oh my god, forget I said that.”

“Consider it forgotten,” Grantaire laughed. “You seem fine, in any case.”

“I think I just don’t know how else to be,” Enjolras muttered. “This is my normal. I hate it.”

“It’s that bad?”

“It fucking sucks,” Enjolras snapped. “Sorry,” he said, quieter. “I didn’t mean…I mean, I did, but I’m not angry at you. Or anyone. Because it’s not anyone’s fault. But it’s still _crap_ , you know? I hate not being able to touch people. I hate having to be like this, and never getting to touch people without their feelings hijacking my brain. It’s horrible.”

“But not always, you said,” Grantaire said softly.

“A few good experiences out of hundreds of bad ones doesn’t…” Enjolras gesticulated, searching for the words. “It doesn’t make up for it. I just want to be able to touch people and stay in my own skin. Does that make sense?”

“You want to be normal?” Grantaire guessed.

“I want to be _human_.” Enjolras frowned unhappily, hand clenching in the fabric of Grantaire’s jacket. “I want…lots of things. I want lots of things.” He stumbled, and Grantaire’s arm became strong around his waist, holding him upright. “Sorry, sorry…”

“It’s fine.” Grantaire’s grip went gentle again, though they seemed to be holding Enjolras a little closer than before. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t let me start crying again,” Enjolras mumbled. “That was awful last time.”

“I thought you didn’t remember?”

“I remember enough to want to crawl into a hole and die whenever I think about it,” Enjolras said bluntly, and sighed, head drooping. “I’m so tired.”

“We’re almost at the bus stop.” Grantaire steered him around a corner, and Enjolras let his eyes drift shut, trusting in Grantaire’s directions.

“How long will we have to wait when we get there?”

“Um…” Grantaire pulled their phone out, and Enjolras leaned against them as they walked on. “Half an hour,” they said finally, and Enjolras groaned, digging his heels in and forcing Grantaire to stop.

“I refuse.” He forced himself to open his eyes and look properly at Grantaire. “I’d rather pay for a taxi.”

“Hey, big spender,” Grantaire said in English, grinning lopsidedly. They switched back to French at Enjolras’ bemused expression. “It’s a song. You sure?”

“Yes.” Enjolras closed his eyes again. “Can you call? I’ll pay.”

“Deal.” Grantaire didn’t let go of him, and Enjolras had to practically scream at himself to resist the urge to turn his head and press his face against Grantaire’s neck. Now they weren’t moving, he could smell Grantaire – a mixture of alcohol from the club, some deodorant or cologne or something, and other things Enjolras couldn’t even begin to try to put names to in his state. He was so rarely close enough to people to smell them, and he inhaled deeply, surprised at how pleasant it was.

He jerked awake, realising his head had been nodding, and tried to stand a little straighter. “Sorry.”

Grantaire hung up on whichever taxi company they’d called and squeezed Enjolras’ waist. “What for?”

“I think I’m falling asleep on you,” Enjolras breathed, then yawned. “You’re very comfortable.”

R laughed, turning towards him, and their jaws bumped together. Affection and fondness flashed through Enjolras’ mind, so fast he almost didn’t register it, but the combination of that and Grantaire’s stubble pricking his chin shocked a gasp out of him before he could stop it.

“Sorry!” they both said together, and Grantaire laughed while Enjolras ducked his head and wondered whether he should pull away from Grantaire completely (even though he was desperately drinking in the rare prolonged physical contact).

“You okay?” Grantaire asked, sounding almost shy.

Enjolras nodded quickly. “Sorry,” he muttered again. “Sorry.”

“Was it that bad?” Grantaire joked.

Enjolras frowned at his shoes, swaying a little harder against Grantaire, who didn’t even budge. “I wish I could touch you properly,” he said, the words slipping out without his permission.

“Properly?” Grantaire had raised an eyebrow, Enjolras saw when he looked.

Hell, why not? Enjolras blinked several times and lifted his free hand to hover just over the line of Grantaire’s jaw. “I can’t though,” he reminded himself. “Because it’s…it’s not fair, and it –” Grantaire turned their head and Enjolras’ fingers skidded against their skin. Stubble grazed his fingers and heat burst through his head. _–want-daring-desire–_ He jerked his hand back, wide-eyed.

“What if I let you?” Grantaire said simply.

Enjolras stared at them for a moment, uncomprehending. “It’s not that simple,” he said at last.

Grantaire shrugged a shoulder, expression strangely vulnerable. “Isn’t it? As long as you have my permission…”

“But you can’t control what you feel,” Enjolras argued. “No one can. So how can you give permission for that? I can’t, I’m not allowed.”

“Says who?”

“Me!” Enjolras cried. “I say so, and so does…fuck, the laws of ethics. Or they would, if people like me existed.”

Grantaire pulled him away from the edge of the pavement, and Enjolras realised he’d been in danger of slipping off it. “But you do exist.”

“I’m an abnormality.” Enjolras’ grip tightened, and Grantaire raised their eyebrows.

“You’re holding on pretty tight for a guy who thinks he isn’t allowed.”

“Just because I can’t doesn’t mean I don’t _want_ to,” Enjolras tried to explain. “I want to touch people all the time – I just don’t want what they’re feeling at the time to come with it. I just want…I want to be able to hug someone without worrying about touching their skin, and I want…I want to be like Courfeyrac, or Bahorel, or you. You touch people all the time. It’s not fair.”

Grantaire’s phone rang suddenly, cutting Enjolras off in his tracks, and Grantaire fumbled it out of their pocket to accept the call. “Taxi’s here,” they told Enjolras a second later, sliding it back into their jeans. “Just round the corner. Come on.”

Enjolras was too tired to protest Grantaire’s steadying arm guiding him up the pavement and around the corner to where a small car was waiting. “My wallet’s in my pocket,” he murmured.

“Do you have enough cash?”

“Yeah.”

Enjolras fell asleep almost as soon as Grantaire bundled him into the back seat, curled up against the window so he wouldn’t fall against Grantaire. He woke up when they shook his shoulder. “What?” he mumbled.

“We’re here,” Grantaire whispered. “I hope you have money.”

Enjolras stared at them for a moment before the words sank in and he nodded, dragging his wallet from his pocket and handing it to Grantaire, who shrugged and counted out however much the taxi had cost. “Thanks,” they said to the driver, a middle-aged woman with gem-studded glasses.

“Get him to bed,” she grinned, and Grantaire laughed quietly, manoeuvring Enjolras out of the car.

“That’s the plan.”

Enjolras clung to Grantaire for a moment before finding his feet and trying to stand on his own. Grantaire slid an arm round his waist the way they had before and snorted. “I don’t think so. I think you’re still mostly asleep.”

Enjolras sighed and nodded, giving in and leaning against Grantaire as they walked up the street to his building. “Keys in your pocket as well?” Grantaire checked, and Enjolras nodded again, fingers loose and weak as he managed to hook one through the ring and pull them from his pocket to give to them.

“Here.”

“I hope you’re not usually this trusting,” Grantaire said lightly. “I could rob you blind.”

“You wouldn’t.” Enjolras knew it, and Grantaire sighed.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t. Is this your building?”

Enjolras opened his eyes for a moment and nodded. “Fob on the keyring against that panel.”

“Fancy.”

“I like the security.”

“Which floor are you?” Grantaire grunted, pulling Enjolras through the door.

“Second.”

“Not a fan of heights?”

Enjolras made a humming noise, too tired to converse properly. Grantaire seemed to get the message, because they didn’t speak as they got him into the elevator and walked Enjolras along the hall to his apartment, keys jangling as they fiddled with them, trying to slide the right one into the lock. Enjolras sighed with relief when the door opened, his free hand finding the light switch automatically.

“Huh.” Grantaire sounded surprised. “It’s smaller than I expected.”

“Mmhm.” Enjolras gazed at his apartment as if seeing it for the first time. It looked smaller than it was because of the bookshelves lining practically every wall. There were really only two rooms – the main one, and the little bathroom. The kitchenette was tucked in the corner to the right of the door, and his bed was hidden behind yet more bookshelves at the far end, in front of the window. “I like it.”

“It’s nice,” Grantaire agreed. “Very you. Come on then.” They closed the door behind them and dropped Enjolras’ keys on the kitchen table as they passed it. “You need to go to bed.”

As Grantaire found his pyjamas and nudged him towards the bathroom, Enjolras brutally pushed down the fleeting hope that Grantaire would help him change. He could manage fine on his own (hadn’t he always? Wouldn’t he always?) and Grantaire didn’t deserve to be manipulated into touching him for Enjolras’ own selfish gratification.

Though after spending so long pressed against Grantaire’s side, held close like that, Grantaire’s smell and heat surrounding him like something intoxicating he didn’t understand but knew he craved…it was difficult. It was like those periods of aching for human contact he’d gone through before, but more intense. This wouldn’t be banished by hugging pillows and riding the métro at rush hour.

While Grantaire had been ignoring him he’d even briefly reconsidered, for a ludicrous moment, getting a pet. He’d discarded that idea a long time ago – he couldn’t care for an animal the way it would deserve to be cared for, and he knew it. He was just being selfish.

He tried so hard not to be selfish.

Grantaire tapped on the door. “You alive in there? Please tell me you haven’t fallen asleep.”

“’m awake,” Enjolras mumbled, and unlocked the door. He stepped out as Grantaire stepped back, and Enjolras tugged at the cuffs of his long-sleeved pyjama shirt self-consciously (most people wore t-shirts to bed, or less, but he could never fall asleep with too much bare skin exposed). “Thanks,” he said quietly, trying not to sway. “For taking me home.”

Grantaire smiled. “I texted Feuilly for you too. It’s no problem. I should probably go.” They started towards the door and Enjolras’ entire body jerked, trying to follow.

“Wait!” He grabbed the edge of a bookcase to stop himself taking another step after Grantaire, who turned to face him with raised eyebrows. Enjolras’ courage almost failed, but he went on recklessly. “You could stay.”

Because after all, Grantaire had given him _their_ hospitality before, and Enjolras should return the favour, shouldn’t he? And his sofa was perfectly comfortable (a lie, but Enjolras would be the one sleeping on it, so it didn’t matter). And if the sofa was ruled out his bed was big enough for the both of them, and they wouldn’t have to touch because Enjolras had long pyjamas and there was plenty of space and offering to let Grantaire stay was only polite, wasn’t it? He was just being a good friend, wasn’t he?

Grantaire bit their lip. “I shouldn’t.”

Enjolras swallowed. “Why not? It’s just…it’s late, and your place is miles away, and I wouldn’t try to touch you or anything –”

“Even if I wanted you to?” Grantaire interrupted, and Enjolras was stunned into silence. Grantaire took a deep breath and went on. “Even if I asked you to?”

Enjolras clung tighter to the edge of the bookcase. “I don’t understand,” he said quietly. “Why would you?”

Grantaire pushed a hand through their hair and shifted their weight from side to side, their other hand tapping a restless rhythm against their leg. Body in motion while Enjolras was frozen still. “I guess it’s not like you don’t know, so,” they muttered. “I mean. When you…at mine.” They met Enjolras’ eyes. “In my kitchen? What you said, it was true.”

Enjolras shook his head, frowning in confusion. “What I said?”

“That I was in love with you,” Grantaire said, wincing at their own words. “It was true. I didn’t realise, um. At the time. Because I’m an idiot, so I kind of freaked out, but it was true.”

“You love me?” Enjolras repeated stupidly. “You’re in love with me?”

Grantaire sighed. “Yes. So…I shouldn’t stay, because it’s just…it’s not fair, and it’s not your fault, but I don’t want to…I don’t know, take advantage? Because you’re still drunk, and I’m –”

“Stay.” Enjolras interrupted them, body swaying forward despite his iron grip on the bookcase. “I’m not that bad, honestly, I’m just tired.” If Grantaire wanted to stay as well, surely that made it alright? Didn’t it? It _had_ to. “Grantaire?”

Grantaire hesitated, chewing their lip. “I…”

“There’s plenty of room.” Enjolras told them. “It’ll take you ages to get back to yours. Just stay.” _Please._ _Please stay_.

“Are you sure?” Grantaire asked tentatively. At Enjolras’ firm nod, they let out a long breath. “I’ll need to text Feuilly.”

“Turn out the light when you’re done,” Enjolras told them, and forced himself to let go of the bookcase to stumble the three steps over to his bed. Facing the window, he couldn’t see Grantaire, and he slid under the duvet and closed his eyes, heart hammering. The only places his skin was bare were his feet, hands, and head. And his neck and part of his chest – he’d never liked clothes with tight necklines. But the chances for accidental touching were slim, so…that made this okay?

He’d never expected to get this far with anyone, let alone someone he actually _wanted_ to touch. He had absolutely no idea what to do.

Grantaire made a trip to the bathroom after turning off the lights, and only Enjolras’ nerves were keeping him awake when Grantaire finally came back and stumbled around the end of the bed to the empty side. In the dark, Enjolras opened his eyes a crack, and saw Grantaire hesitate before unzipping their skirt and letting it pool on the floor, peeling off their socks and touching their fingers to the duvet for a moment as if checking it was real. Then the bed dipped as they climbed in, and their eyes met Enjolras’ when they rolled to face him.

“Are you sure this is okay?” they whispered. Enjolras nodded.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he admitted, and Grantaire’s lips quirked. Enjolras wondered what it would be like to kiss them – he’d wondered for a while now, but he’d never been close enough for it to actually happen. He’d never wanted it to happen so badly. Something in his stomach flipped over, and he bit down on his tongue to stop himself doing anything stupid.

He wasn’t going to be selfish.

“We could touch if you wanted,” Grantaire said. “Hold hands, or…not…I mean, we don’t have to, and…oh my god, I’m sorry, just ignore me.”

Enjolras’ breath caught in his chest and he moved his left hand up to lie between them, palm-up just below the pillows. “If you want,” he said nervously. “If it’s okay with you.” He desperately hoped it would be.

Grantaire scanned his face in the gloom and ran the tip of their tongue between their lips, wetting them. “Are you sure?” At Enjolras’ nod, they pulled their left hand up from under the duvet. There was a moment of hesitation, during which Enjolras was sure even his cells stopped working, and then Grantaire slid their fingers through Enjolras’, their palms coming together, and it was perfect.

_-worry-desire-devotion-care-want-tenderness-affection-_

Enjolras bit back a sigh as Grantaire flowed through his head. Their hand was warm and heavy on top of Enjolras’, and it was beautiful. He closed his eyes and melted into the bed, all the tension fleeing his body. “Thank you,” he mumbled. If Grantaire replied, he didn’t hear it, already asleep.

 

He was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming, because he didn’t climb cliffs in real life, but in his dream he was a professional, and pretty good at it. He was nearly at the top, hundreds of feet of sheer, pale-brown rock stretching below him until it was obscured by treetops, and he was doing well. The wind was keeping him cool, and the next link in the path he was on glinted just a couple of feet ahead of him. He paused for a moment, holding onto the wall with one hand and pushing his helmet back with the other, admiring the view, harness holding him steady.

The dream suddenly shifted, hard rock and exertion becoming softness and relaxation, his body vanishing as his mind drifted gently, humming with warm pleasure. He could remember a smell – or a mix of smells – and an arm around his waist. Affection and tenderness and acceptance thrummed through his mind, and Enjolras sighed, not quite awake, but aware of his body in bed, warm under the duvet.

Something shifted against his neck, and he lifted his hand lazily to bat it away. But he found fingers instead, and when he touched them the pleasant feelings in his head flared briefly _–wonder-want-tenderness-bursting-singing-craving–_ so when they made to pull away he grabbed them and held on, arching his back to keep them pressed against his collarbone.

God, it was nice. He smiled sleepily, and forced himself to wake up, opening his eyes and looking up at the ceiling.

He was holding a hand. He was holding _Grantaire’s_ hand, after they had tried to pull it away.

The realisation was like a jet of freezing water to the face, and Enjolras let go immediately, shoving Grantaire’s hand away with a gasp as he rolled to see if they had noticed. Naturally, Grantaire was wide awake, staring at him, and Enjolras started to babble. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I wouldn’t ever – I was asleep, it was an accident, I’m sorry, I –”

“Enjolras!” Grantaire held up a placating hand between them and Enjolras shifted backwards, hideously guilty. “It’s fine, it was my fault.” Enjolras shook his head, but Grantaire laid their hand palm-up on the bed between them the way Enjolras had last night. “You can if you want,” Grantaire said. “I wouldn’t mind. Quite the opposite.”

Enjolras knew he shouldn’t. The knowledge was practically written on his bones – he shouldn’t ever touch people, not _ever_ , not even if they wanted him to. Especially if they wanted him to.

But Grantaire was different. Grantaire knew the truth, and Grantaire didn’t mind.

Enjolras’ fingers spasmed against his own shoulder, desperate to touch. He had last night, he reasoned. And it had felt like paradise, waking up the way he had. And…Grantaire wanted him to.

Slowly, he uncurled his fingers and stretched his hand out to hover over Grantaire’s, still hesitating. Grantaire pushed their hand up, palm pressing against Enjolras’ – _hope-devotion-desire-acceptance_ – and Enjolras exhaled as Grantaire’s emotions swirled through his head. He closed his eyes as their fingers entwined and sighed, relaxing muscles he hadn’t even realised were tense.

It was perfect comfort. Grantaire’s hand shifted against his, and Enjolras made a soft sound of contentment at the dual sensation of physical touch and the warmth of everything Grantaire was feeling flowing through his head. It was bliss. He shifted his thumb, rubbing it along the side of Grantaire’s index finger, and longing that wasn’t his bloomed suddenly.

It was impossible to argue to himself that he was doing something wrong when it was so clear that Grantaire wanted this just as much as he did. It was okay. Just this once, just with Grantaire, it could be okay.

When he opened his eyes, Grantaire’s were closed, and Enjolras took the opportunity to study their face in the light coming through his pale curtains. Their dark curls were a mess, wild and unruly against the pillow, and their skin was marked here and there with old scars from what Enjolras assumed was acne, though there was a thin straight scar near their hairline he’d never seen before. It was less than an inch long, and Enjolras wondered how Grantaire had gotten it. Their lips were thin, a little uneven, and there were greyish circles under their eyes, though part of that might have been the shadows from their eyelashes.

That wistfulness he’d felt from Grantaire before was back now in full force, partially concealed under the lazy pleasure they were apparently feeling at that moment. It was difficult to decipher what exactly was behind the ballooning sensation he was getting from them; such pure happiness that it almost made him want to cry. Enjolras looked at their hands and only hesitated for a moment before he rolled onto his back and lifted their linked hands up so that he could study them.

“What’re you doing?” Grantaire mumbled, shifting closer.

_-laziness-warmth-pleasure-content-devotion-adoration-care-_

Enjolras slid his fingers away loosely, making sure not to lose skin contact altogether, and started to examine Grantaire’s fingers one by one. “Just looking.” He’d never had the chance to look at someone else’s hands close up before. Grantaire’s were interesting. Their nails were short, their ring fingernail bitten down to the quick, and the skin around their cuticles was red and chewed-looking.

There were three…four small scars on Grantaire’s knuckles, which were slightly bruised as well – belatedly, Enjolras remembered that Grantaire had punched that boy last night – and a thicker white line on the underside of their middle finger. “What happened?” Enjolras asked quietly, curious.

_-elation-pleasure-joy-shy-hope-want-_

Grantaire cleared their throat before they answered. “Accident with a knife when I was little. I was helping my nan chop vegetables.”

Enjolras rubbed his thumb over one of Grantaire’s fingernails and brushed the backs of his fingers down their palm. The longing Grantaire had felt before rushed back, bursting like a silent firework in Enjolras’ head, and without really thinking, he brought Grantaire’s hand down a little and pressed his lips to the line of their knuckles.

_-heat-desire-need-crave-lust-_

Enjolras gasped at the burn of naked _want_ as Grantaire yanked their hand away. “Sorry,” he choked, coming back to himself and railing internally at his own stupidity. Why did he have to keep ruining everything? “Sorry, I didn’t –”

“It’s fine, I was just…” Grantaire trailed off and bit their lip before offering their hand again. “You don’t have to stop.”

Enjolras didn’t move, and Grantaire seemed to steel themself before they lowered their hand and pressed their fingers against the top of Enjolras’ chest, just below his collarbone, above the neck of his shirt.

_-wariness-hope-want-desire-anticipation-yearning-craving-longing-_

Enjolras’ eyes fluttered closed against his will, lips parting. He arched his back thoughtlessly, seeking more, and Grantaire obliged with what Enjolras could tell was a smile though he hadn’t seen it. The palm Grantaire flattened over his sternum was so warm, and Enjolras realised with a sudden rush of embarrassment that Grantaire would be able to feel just how fast his heart was beating. It was drowned out in the surge of desire they felt.

Grantaire wanted, _craved_ more, and Enjolras was already nodding when they asked, “Can I –?” with their other hand feather-light against the bottom of Enjolras’ shirt. Could they touch, Enjolras knew they were asking, and he nodded quickly, rolling onto his side to get closer and give Grantaire better access.

“Yes,” he whispered, forcing his eyes open. He was rewarded by seeing Grantaire’s wonder as well as feeling it when they slid their hand under Enjolras’ shirt and flattened it over his side, fingers curving to fit the shape of Enjolras’ body.

Enjolras ducked his head and let out a shaky breath, the sound of it releasing a fresh burst of desperation in Grantaire. Their reactions were feeding each other, Enjolras realised distantly. He reacted to Grantaire’s emotions, and Grantaire reacted to his physical response to them. A constantly renewing cycle, building the sensations up to breaking point.

He choked down a high noise as Grantaire’s hand slid up his back, so large and warm and _not his own_. Grantaire was silent, but every time Enjolras’ breathing hitched or his expression wavered he felt Grantaire’s responses like hot waves under his skin.

_-want-need-desperation-craving-hunger-greed-amazement-_

A soft noise escaped his throat, and Grantaire’s desire spiked, making Enjolras’ whole body jerk towards him. “ _Oh_ …”

“Okay?” Grantaire whispered, and Enjolras hadn’t even realised his eyes were closed again until he needed to open them. His skin was flushed, breathing uneven, and when he met Grantaire’s eyes and nodded _–eagerness-lust-longing-care-reverence–_ he had to close them again immediately in the face of Grantaire’s reaction, biting his lip hard to try and keep himself quiet.

Grantaire’s knees bumped against his own, and Enjolras arched into the hand they drew down his spine. When they moved their other hand from Enjolras’ chest to his neck, thumb caressing the line of his jaw, Enjolras whimpered. How many times had he touched his own face like that, pretending it was someone else? This was so much better. This was on another level entirely, because he could feel it when Grantaire’s own pleasure grew in response.

_-want-crave-need-rapture-adoration-elation-joy-heat-lust-_

“Oh,” he gasped, biting his tongue and squeezing his eyes shut, turning his face into Grantaire’s hand and pressing a desperate kiss to the heel of their palm. The gesture made Grantaire’s desire burn, shocking them both with its intensity, and Enjolras couldn’t quite choke down a moan, cheeks hot with self-consciousness. He was so hard, probably only a couple of seconds away from thrusting in a vain attempt to get some friction, and he’d never _wanted_ so badly in his whole life. And all from Grantaire’s hands on his back and face – hardly anything at all.

Grantaire’s fingers danced over his side, up to his shoulders and down to the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. Enjolras’ top was riding up under his arms, pushed out of the way, and he grabbed hold of Grantaire’s shoulder and bowed his head, every exhale a gasp. Grantaire’s fingertips slid under the elastic, their touch gentle against the crease where Enjolras’ hip met his thigh.

_-trepidation-anticipation-hope-heat-_

“Can I?”

Enjolras nodded, breathing, “ _Yes_ , Grantaire, please –” A spike of dizzying joy and Grantaire wrapped their hand around Enjolras’ cock. Enjolras shuddered, unable to hold back a moan as he dug his fingers into Grantaire’s shoulder and curved into it.

_-desire-lust-want-awe-_

“Gran _taire_ ,” Enjolras choked, bucking his hips, and Grantaire began to stroke him. Enjolras couldn’t keep himself quiet, couldn’t even close his mouth as he pressed his head against Grantaire’s shoulder and whined, practically sobbing. And Grantaire’s own arousal increased with every second, their breathing coming in short pants and their mind, their mind blank but for the focused desire for _more more more_.

Enjolras couldn’t believe this was happening, that someone else was touching him like this, that someone else _could_ , that that someone was _Grantaire_ – it was so much more than he had ever believed he could have. And Grantaire wanted it too, wanted it so badly they practically _ached_ , and Enjolras lost all coherent thought and cried out as he came, voice hoarse and high and utterly wrecked, skin covered in goosebumps and body shivering because Grantaire was still on edge, almost frantic with it. Enjolras dragged his shaking hand from Grantaire’s shoulder to their stomach, pushing his fingers under the waistband of their boxers and touching Grantaire the way they had touched him. He could feel their desperation, their tension, the way everything in them was straining towards climax.

When they came, Enjolras gasped, eyes flying wide open. For a few long, incredible seconds Grantaire’s mind _sang_ , totally clear and white, and it trailed off into blissed-out euphoria that was so strong Enjolras’ head span from it. He’d never considered what it would be like to experience only the mental side of an orgasm, but it was kind of mind-blowing.

Grantaire curled the hand that had been on Enjolras’ neck into his hair, still breathing fast. “Whoa.”

“Mmmhmm,” Enjolras agreed, still slightly in shock.

_-pleasure-languid-joy-affection-care-tenderness-concern-_

“Are you okay?”

Enjolras swallowed a couple of times and nodded, lifting his head to look at Grantaire properly. “When we’ve brushed our teeth, can I kiss you?”

_-hope-elation-disbelief-happiness-_

“Yes,” Grantaire whispered, eyes wide. “Yes, you can definitely do that.”

“Oh good.” Enjolras moved his head so that their foreheads were pressed together, Grantaire’s curls tickling his face. “Thank you.”

Grantaire laughed, their voice a little hoarse. “You really don’t –”

“I do,” Enjolras interrupted. “I do need to thank you, I do, I’m so…so happy right now.” He pulled back enough to meet Grantaire’s eyes and smiled. Everything heavy in his chest had been pulled out, replaced by a bubbling, sparkling sensation, and it was all down to Grantaire. “I’ve never woken up with anyone before,” he whispered, and once he’d started, he couldn’t stop. “I’ve never even shared a bed with anyone, not even when I was little; I wasn’t allowed. And this…” He curled his sticky fingers against Grantaire’s stomach. “I’ve never done this, I never thought…I never ever thought this would happen to me.”

“But you wanted it?” Grantaire checked, looking up at Enjolras through their eyelashes. They were beautiful, Enjolras saw. Grantaire was beautiful. He made a mental note to tell them all the ways they were in detail later, but for now just nodded.

“So badly. I thought…” He watched as Grantaire pushed the duvet back and sat up slowly, the morning light casting deep shadows on their face. “I thought I could handle it as long as there wasn’t anyone I actually wanted to…you know…” He should slow down, he was going far too fast, but Grantaire looked down at him like he was some sort of miracle, and Enjolras couldn’t stop. “Anyone I actually wanted to be with,” he said, pushing the words out of him in a rush. “But then you…you happened, and I wanted…” He blushed, drawing his hand away, suddenly very aware of how gross his fingers and stomach felt, smeared with come.

Grantaire’s clean hand brushed against his cheek – _tenderness-care-adoration-acceptance_ – and when Enjolras looked up, they smiled. “Me too.” They kept their voice soft, low and pleasant. “I mean, I wanted this too.”

Enjolras turned his face into their hand and closed his eyes, a helpless smile spreading across his own face.

After a moment, Grantaire shifted, getting up and shuffling out of bed, their hand falling away. “We should get cleaned up.” Enjolras nodded and slid out of the other side, his limbs a little shaky. It was as if he’d been hollowed out, the space between his bones and skin filled with fluff and air. He wanted nothing more than to touch Grantaire again to fill up the gaps, weighing him down and keeping him close.

But they needed to clean up. Which included brushing their teeth. Suddenly eager, Enjolras smiled over at Grantaire before slipping into the bathroom. He heard them walk past the door, probably to use the tap in the kitchen, and tried not to let his thoughts build up too much as he washed his hands and face and brushed his teeth. Away from Grantaire, his fragility felt more like a hangover than anything else, but he ignored that in favour of washing his mouth out several more times than strictly necessary.

Grantaire was dressed and examining one of Enjolras’ bookshelves when he came out, and gave him a shy smile before going into the bathroom. They passed Enjolras close enough for him to reach out and touch, but he wasn’t quite brave enough to do that so casually. Not yet, at least.

And on the subject of ‘yet’…would there be more? Could there be more?

Grantaire seemed – no. Grantaire _did_ like him. More than that; Grantaire loved him. They’d even said so last night, and Enjolras…

The bathroom door opened and Grantaire emerged, biting their lip and rubbing the material of their skirt between the fingers of one hand. “I just used my finger, since I don’t have a toothbrush,” they said. “I hope that’s okay?”

“I love you.” As soon as the words left his mouth, they sounded _right_ , and Enjolras smiled in the face of Grantaire’s open mouth and wide eyes. “I love you. Kiss me.”

Grantaire crossed the distance between them in two steps and slid their hands against the sides of Enjolras’ neck immediately, thumbs soft against his jaw and long fingers buried in his hair. Their giddy hope and want burst through Enjolras, devotion and happiness warm under his skin, and he lifted his own hands to rest on Grantaire’s hips, not daring to go further.

Grantaire tilted their face up and pulled Enjolras down, pulled him closer, and their noses slid against each other before their lips met, the skin softer than Enjolras could have imagined. He wasn’t sure whether the elation setting his head spinning was his or Grantaire’s, and that had never happened before. He’d never touched someone and had his own mind in exactly the same place as them, never been so attuned to another person, and he made a desperate sound as he opened his mouth, wanting more. Greedy, needful, he forgot his nerves and wrapped his arms around Grantaire properly, pressing their bodies together and losing himself in their shared joy.

Everything rushing through him coalesced, blended, merged; coming together in a single note, a single feeling. The two of them perfectly united, perhaps for the first time. And Enjolras felt them separate, their thoughts splitting in different directions after a few moments because no one was exactly the same, but that undercurrent of love stayed. Stayed and settled under his skin, hazy golden warmth sinking into his bones as they kissed and kissed and kissed, the apartment filling with sunlight around them.


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire wasn’t pushing him to tell Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but they were doing the opposite of discouraging the idea. Enjolras hadn’t had any idea of how subtle Grantaire could be, especially with their full knowledge of Enjolras’ abilities.

He was getting better at reading Grantaire through touch, and Grantaire was getting better at using it to communicate. At Enjolras’ request, they were keeping it toned down around the others. Nothing more than hand holding, and even that at a minimum. He knew Grantaire wanted more, but they were willing to move at Enjolras’ pace, for which Enjolras was pathetically grateful. In private, they experimented together.

So far, Enjolras’ favourite experiment (the most frustrating and mind-blowingly excellent one) had been when Grantaire rolled on top of him in bed, the duvet between their bodies, and pinned Enjolras’ hands to the pillow as their only point of contact. They still wouldn’t tell Enjolras exactly what filth they’d been imagining, but being turned on solely through his mental connection to Grantaire had been maddening. He’d writhed and begged and almost been at the point of crying when he finally came, sweat drenching his body under the duvet trap and voice cracking from crying out.

So his psychic empathy wasn’t all bad. At least, not when Grantaire was involved.

But Grantaire’s little hints and nudges, verbal and non-verbal, kept his mind on the subject of telling his two best friends. Allowing himself to freely touch Grantaire had opened the floodgates, it seemed. Enjolras tried not to be greedy, but he wanted Combeferre and Courfeyrac to know. They’d been his friends for years, for far longer than Grantaire. Didn’t that give them the right to know?

“You’re scared,” Grantaire told him one night, nose pressed to the back of Enjolras’ neck, limbs tangled with his. A real person spooning him was nothing like pressing his back into a line of pillows and pretending. Grantaire’s warm bulk and the weight of their arm over Enjolras’ middle was infinitely better, the way they curled their legs to fit their knees exactly into the backs of Enjolras’ a gift Enjolras would never take for granted. “It’s okay, Enjolras.”

“If I invite them over, will you come too?” Enjolras whispered.

“I’ll do anything you want.”

“You don’t need to be in the room, but…just nearby? Or maybe you could just arrive about ten minutes after they do?”

Grantaire kissed the back of his neck. – _sympathy-tenderness-love-kindness-respect_ – “Anything you want.”

It took Enjolras another week to finally bite the bullet and text Combeferre and Courfeyrac, asking them to come to his that evening so he could tell them something important. After fielding a half a dozen replies from each of them checking that he was okay, Enjolras relaxed a little, overwhelmed with fondness for his worry-consumed friends. They loved him. It would be okay.

They arrived at the same time, having apparently found each other outside before coming in when Enjolras buzzed them up. Seeing them there in his doorway after inviting them over was nothing short of terrifying, and Enjolras resorted to playing host in an effort to hide his fear.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Combeferre frowned over at him from the armchair.

“You’re bustling,” Courfeyrac agreed, turning round completely on the sofa and leaning his elbows on the low back, watching as Enjolras fiddled with the kettle. “What’s wrong?”

It was already too much.

“Nothing’s wrong.” He tried to sound firm, controlled, but couldn’t turn to meet their eyes. He pressed the heels of his hands into the curved edge of the counter instead, the cool surface turning slick from the heat of his skin. Two damp marks were left behind when he moved his sweating palms and poured hot water into three mugs – tea for him and Combeferre, coffee for Courfeyrac.

The mugs were placed on the coffee table instead of given by hand – a habit engineered to prevent accidental touching. He sat down on the sofa and leaned against the arm, turning to face Courfeyrac at the opposite end and Combeferre in the armchair he always claimed when he came over, and realised he had no idea how to begin. He’d made notes and rehearsed several ideas, but under Courfeyrac’s curiosity and Combeferre’s concern, he wilted and shrank, staring down at the edge of the rug.

The silence stretched out for several long seconds until Combeferre prompted, “Enjolras?”

“I wish I was drunk.” He didn’t need to see or touch Courfeyrac to know his eyebrows had just shot up.

“I wish I’d caught that on video,” Courfeyrac managed to say a moment later. “Would you mind repeating that in front of a camera?”

Enjolras lifted his head to glare at him and ended up smiling. It faded a second later as his nerves returned, and he looked down again. “Grantaire,” he began, and something in him eased. “Grantaire knows. I told them when I was drunk.”

He looked up just in time to see something light in Combeferre’s eyes. “Is this about the touching thing?” At Enjolras’ nod, his lips turned up just slightly at the corners. “You’re not hurt? You’re not ill?”

“No, nothing like that.” Apparently reassurances via text didn’t count. “This is something I’ve always had.”

“You’re making it sound like an illness, whatever ‘it’ is.” Courfeyrac’s tone was dry, but he frowned afterwards. “What’s the matter, Enjolras?”

Despite the warm room and his sweating palms, Enjolras was freezing almost to the point of shivering. Could panic make people cold? “I’m,” he started, stopped, tried again. “It’s not…” He was never speechless like this. How had he told Grantaire? His memories of that night were still so fuzzy they were as good as useless.

“It’s okay, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac told him, voice pitched low and gentle as if Enjolras was a frightened animal.

Which he basically was, at present.

“It’s not.” The words came out brittle, faint. Ice too thin to touch without it caving in and shattering. “I’m sorry.” Breathe in, breathe out. He couldn’t seem to get a full lungful, but perhaps it was better that way, less noticeable. How had he thought he could do this? Idiot, idiot, how could he have been so utterly foolish? How could he backtrack now? He was too panicked to think clearly and Combeferre and Courfeyrac were _right there_ staring at him, waiting for an explanation he was too scared to give.

“Enjolras…” A golden hand appeared on the sofa by his foot, Courfeyrac reaching out but not touching. Never touching because Enjolras had made it so clear that he didn’t touch, that touching was never an option, not even if it was meant in comfort or greeting or friendship.

“It sounds so stupid,” he choked out, incapable of looking at either of them. They were probably sharing worried looks, wondering whether he’d had a breakdown or something. He never behaved like this normally.

“Whatever it is, you can tell us,” Combeferre assured him.

They probably thought he’d been abused. For a ridiculous second he considered telling them that he had been, and screwed his eyes shut, furious that he’d even thought such a thing.

“Take your time.” Courfeyrac shifted opposite him, settling into the sofa more comfortably. For some reason, it helped. Enjolras sucked in a breath, then another. Combeferre drank some of his tea, the sounds startling in the quiet room – an intake of breath, a slurp, a gulp – but something in him calmed at the broken silence.

When he made himself speak, his voice still came out horribly quiet. “It sounds ridiculous. You won’t believe me. I wouldn’t believe me.” No wonder he’d been blackout drunk before the possibility of telling Grantaire had even surfaced in his mind. Saying this sober was the scariest thing he’d ever made himself do.

“Why don’t you let us decide?” Combeferre suggested gently.

Enjolras’ chest shuddered; an aborted sob. “I can’t, I can’t do this, it sounds so stupid, you’ll think I’m lying or crazy or sick –”

“No, Enjolras.” Combeferre got up and came to sit on the coffee table, close enough to reach out to, close enough that Enjolras could see his legs out of the corner of his eye. “Calm down, it’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

Enjolras pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I don’t even know how to say it,” he breathed. “Not without making it sound like something out of a shit movie.”

How could he possibly tell them? This close, he could feel the phantom heartbreak of his two best friends stunned into incredulous silence for a moment before perhaps laughing or suggesting he get professional help. They would never believe him. He’d been lucky enough to find Grantaire, and astronomically fortunate that they believed him and loved him back. He shouldn’t have gotten greedy. He shouldn’t have gotten selfish.

Through all of that, everything in him ached to accept a hug from one of them, from both. An embrace devoid of fear where he could just allow them to comfort him and ease him down from this precipice.

“Are you in trouble?” Combeferre asked, leaning closer. “Is something wrong?”

Enjolras laughed, despairing. “I’m…” Psychic? Telepathic? Empathetic? “I’m doing this all wrong, I…I never…” He swallowed, tried to reign in the wobble in his voice. “There isn’t even any proof I can give you,” he whispered. “This was such a stupid idea.”

There was a long silence, and Enjolras watched his own hands tremble, feeling Courfeyrac and Combeferre have a silent conversation over his bent head. “Is whatever this is something that happens to you when people touch you?” Courfeyrac asked eventually. A miracle – he sounded as calm as if he was asking whether Enjolras was free that weekend. If only it were that simple.

Enjolras nodded, and Combeferre took over. “Is it painful?”

“Not…” Enjolras considered looking up but couldn’t bear the idea of finding a condescending expression. “Not usually. Not in a physical sense.”

“It hurts mentally?”

“No, it…” A deep breath, pressing his hands together to stop them shaking. “It doesn’t _hurt_ , it’s not like that, it’s not – like with Grantaire, it’s different depending on the situation and the person and lots of things…I can’t explain properly.”

“What happens to you when people touch you, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asked, sliding his hand forward again. An offer to demonstrate, but Enjolras knew he wouldn’t feel anything if he did, so what was the point?

His words stuck in his throat, tears pricking his eyes. He’d cried when he told Grantaire; he refused to do it again. “I feel…” His voice cracked and trailed off, and he swallowed to try again. It was far too late to turn back now. “When I touch people, or, or when they touch me, I can…” Deep breath, don’t cry. “Whatever they’re feeling, I can feel it too.” He’d said it, he’d said it, and he could hardly breathe for fear that they would reject him. As a joker, a freak, a deluded fool, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t live without them, and he’d as good as thrown their friendship away. What was he going to do now? They would tell the others and he would lose everyone, and by default, everything else of importance because he couldn’t do anything without his friends.

“You’re…psychic?” Combeferre, tentative for once.

There were tears in his eyes, and Enjolras rubbed them away with the heels of his hands. His face would be blotchy, he was sure. “I’m sorry, I wanted…I’ve always wanted to tell you, but there’s no proof, I can’t prove it, and you think I’m insane –”

“I don’t think you’re insane,” Courfeyrac interrupted. Enjolras jerked his head up to stare at him and saw nothing but conviction in his expression. “I think there’s definitely something to this, since there is absolutely no way you would go to all the effort of avoiding physical contact for so many years if there wasn’t something seriously affecting you when you touch people.”

Enjolras was distantly aware of his mouth dropping open, but no sound came out. Combeferre moved closer and Enjolras jerked, flinching away instinctively, but Combeferre met his eyes without mockery. “When you say you feel what others feel,” he said, “do you mean emotions?”

The room was spinning, and Enjolras was lightheaded and a little dizzy as he nodded.

“Could we think of numbers,” Courfeyrac started, but Enjolras shook his head.

“No, it doesn’t work like that. I can’t read minds, it…I’m sorry, I can’t…”

“It’s okay,” Combeferre soothed, and offered his hand. Enjolras stared at it for several long seconds, Combeferre’s long fingers and dark skin, paler brown palm upturned, wrist hidden by bracelets and wristbands.

“You won’t be able to feel anything,” he whispered finally. “It doesn’t go both ways. It’s not proof.”

“I’m not asking for proof.” Combeferre matched his low voice. “I’m asking you to trust me.”

How could he say no to that? He would trust Combeferre with his life. So Enjolras reached out, ignoring the way his hand trembled, and brushed his fingertips over Combeferre’s.

_-hope-care-faith-concern-reassurance-worry-conviction-comfort-faith-belief-faith-_

He was gripping Combeferre’s hand tight, gasping with relief. “You want to believe me, you –”

“He believes in aliens,” Courfeyrac actually laughed, and offers his hand as well. “Come on, did you really think Combeferre was going to be a problem?”

“Don’t bring up the aliens again,” Combeferre warned, but Courfeyrac just grinned.

“Hey, he also believes in the power of prayer, fairies, auras –”

“Shut up, Courfeyrac.”

Enjolras could barely hear them, squeezing their hands so tightly he could feel their bones grinding. Courfeyrac’s belief wasn’t as faultless as Combeferre’s, but he was just as fierce in his love. If Enjolras said it, he would believe it. They were both a little worried for him, but they wanted to believe him. They didn’t _not_ believe him.

And having both of them in his head at the same time was…

They loved him. They loved him and they loved each other and they were as bound to him as he was to them. Something pleasant jumped in both of them at the same time, and Enjolras opened his eyes to see that they had held hands with each other, the three of them forming a circle.

_-strength-conviction-love-rightness-determination-love-care-tenderness-courage-_

He wished that his abilities could go both ways for a moment, so that they could feel how grateful he was, how relieved and humbled. Words weren’t enough to express it, but he knew they wouldn’t mind his silence. Their love only sharpened and grew when he started to cry, and they let go of each other to wrap him up in a hug, one of them either side of him.

They _believed_ him. There was already an undercurrent of curiosity and excitement in Combeferre – he was probably thinking up ways to test Enjolras and get the proof they both still wanted. Which Enjolras could hardly blame them for.

The buzzer going off interrupted his thoughts (and Combeferre’s and Courfeyrac’s, and he could _feel_ them jump in his head), and he suddenly remembered Grantaire. “I need to get that.”

Letting go of their hands was harder than he’d expected, and he actually missed their reassurances in his head as he stumbled over to the door to buzz Grantaire up. They must have run up the stairs, because they knocked on the door before Enjolras could even sit down again and pulled him into a hug as soon as Enjolras let them in.

_-protective-love-worry-love-hope-love-concern-love-_

“Okay?” they breathed against his neck.

He nodded, giving them a wobbly smile and turning to look over his shoulder at Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who stood up and came over.

“Group hug?” Of course Courfeyrac would be the one to suggest it, but for the first time Enjolras could accept it without freaking out about touching anyone accidentally.

He’d never had three people in his head at the same time, and his physical senses seemed to recede as his mind was overwhelmed with emotions that weren’t his own. It was too much to handle, too much at once, but none of it was _bad_. They believed him, they cared, they loved him. They were shining, three sources of blazing emotion flooding through his body to such a strong degree that he didn’t notice until they stopped touching him that he was on the floor, which felt like it was spinning underneath him.

“Are you okay?” Courfeyrac asked, wide-eyed.

“Mmm.” Enjolras closed his eyes and concentrated, forming the words in his head before speaking them. “Feels like I just…stepped off a roundabout.”

“I guess we overloaded you,” Combeferre apologised. He was crouching right next to him, hands out as though he wanted to examine him.

“I’m okay.” He pushed himself up, grabbing Grantaire’s shoulder for support and giving them all a smile, trying to convey just how grateful he was. “I’m okay. It’s all okay now. It’s good.” It was so much more than that, and all he could do was smile, cheeks aching from the strength of it. They believed him, and they loved him. Everything was going to be better now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other songs that inspired and helped me write this - [Touch Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dCDWWHYkk4Y) from Spring Awakening, [I Want To Hold Your Hand](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EVrSaXBL2iY) covered by Sara Gordon, [Gravity](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A_U6iSAn_fY) by Sara Bareilles, [Between Sheets](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E9QLpU1zgeY) by Imogen Heap, and [Touch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gDaZJ-iTfcI) by Daughter.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


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